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The onset of the illness takes me aback; I am surprised that my immune system is as weak as it is. That is, until I think about how I have been living: off of booze and one night stands; caffeine and hand-rolled cigarettes. People call these vices immoral, a decent into the bacchanalian peccadillo that is nothing, if not presumptive, of, anything, but flesh and grind.
Nothing, actually, to report only the wish of my mind for a the aforementioned. I am in books to my ears, I am sick, I am without transportation outside of my ten speed bianchi, the single longest piece of transportation which I've owned. The bike has seen me through both Oregon as well as California. I have this distinct memory of the ex, driving his 2007 f350 diesel beside me as I rode my bike down the road in to town the week before I finally left. He had the passenger window down, yelling. just stop, I only want to talk to you. His truck had an extended bed as well as a crew cab; there was no bike lane.
Later that day he took me shopping and bought me a new dress.
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My throat closed up in reading the recollection of that distant memory. Not in sadness, but in fear. You are anew, even with the residue of the old. Not in spite of it, but rather in collaboration with it, you burn bright and ignite to blow this world up. Keep going. I love you.
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