Every day when I wake up, I fight with the early morning tiredness. I take my meds, eat my breakfast, and reluctantly start doing my exercises: breathing, singing, and speaking; working out my left leg, left arm, and left hand; and walking or biking. And every day I see a small but major improvement, and it makes me happy – day by day, hour after hour of grinding at the wheel to discover a tiny spark. And sparks blend in cascades of cracking and light that illuminate my life.
But I have lunch, meditate, and write, and as I do that, the light coming in through the window gradually dims. And as it dims, an impalpable fear slowly approaches: I can see myself lying in bed, eyes open, waiting for the fear to reach me. The same feeling overcomes me every day. So, every day, when I do my exercises and meditate and read and write and am gradually surrounded by darkness, I’m eagerly waiting for the end of January to come. Then the days will be longer, the sun will bring with him a promise of warmth, and happiness will last.
But I have lunch, meditate, and write, and as I do that, the light coming in through the window gradually dims. And as it dims, an impalpable fear slowly approaches: I can see myself lying in bed, eyes open, waiting for the fear to reach me. The same feeling overcomes me every day. So, every day, when I do my exercises and meditate and read and write and am gradually surrounded by darkness, I’m eagerly waiting for the end of January to come. Then the days will be longer, the sun will bring with him a promise of warmth, and happiness will last.
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