[via The Paris Project]

I am an abusive reader, using their words to prompt the thought, “I’m glad I’m not you,” reminding myself that my journey of limitations will end in the foreseeable future.

I recite each day what I can’t do. I can’t go for a walk. I can’t work out. I can’t go to work. I can’t do very much in the evenings. I can’t keep commitments I make to friends. I can’t control my emotions. Instead, I live like an animal, reproducing for some instinctive reason I can’t even articulate. I eat when I’m hungry, and can’t wait even twenty minutes for food. I sleep all the time, and can’t stay up late even for E.R. Instead of anticipating my brain to spark a clever thought or teaching idea, I lay in silence for minutes and minutes each day, hands on belly, tactile-listening for pains or contractions or morse code messages. My spiritual and mental life is very small, and my physical life is very large.