Confessions of a Demon

I'm scared of what's wrong with me. I don't know why. I've walked through so much crap without scathing, without blinking, without hesitation and with furious purpose. But now, with blood tests showing oxygen low and red blood cells high, I'm worried.

Fear is death. I'm running. "Heart and lung failure" is something I've known was possible all my life. But now that I've heard it distinctly, directly, not just possibly, I am running, afraid. What does one write about when afraid? Weakness, I suppose. I don't think I'm afraid of appearing weak in front of others. I'm simply afraid of being weak in any respect. Weakness, for me, is not shortcomings of character or moral obligations; but rather an incapacity to exercise influence over one's current condition. That's me now. If my house is dirty, I clean it. If my car is leaking transmission fluid, I replace a gasket. But what do I do when my heart and lungs may be failing?

I guess, so far, I run. I'm two weeks out from finding a solution or ultimate cause. I'm two weeks out from being able to know what to do. I've two weeks yet of weakness. And I hate it.

I think it's raining.

I've got a ton of typing to do.

Too many bills are piling up this month.

I envy Henry Miller and his ability to explore every avenue with every man, woman and bottle that comes his way without regard or concern to the aftermath. Of course, I'm not finished with Tropic of Cancer. Of course, he didn't have medical insurance. Of course, he wasn't weak.

Ir perhaps he was. He speaks of weakness a great deal. Weakness and impatience. But he writes with such strength in voice, I hardly notice. Perhaps he, like me, is strongest with words. Perhaps he's all too good a liar.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

It's seven in the morning and I'm writing about fear. I'm either an incredible writer, or an incredible coward.

Leave me alone.