illness Soma “I mean, I wonder who I would be if I could be cured. But that’s not me. It won’t ever be. It’s just a way to feel hopeless. Life just sucks. It’s shit and I know it and it’s not good or bad or fair it just is. I’m just here, and I have to only ever live in the moment or I’ll hate all my past and despair on a bad day that it will be my future.” He pauses, talking a sip of water from the slender crystaware tumbler that’s as fragile as him. His extra large shirt, once comfortably snug, now hangs loosely flapping from his frame. I remember when it was filled with the warmth and energy of a body I knew. The one I look at now is nearly a stranger. He sways, setting the glass down, and I step to his side. Wondering if he’ll keep the water down this time. Wondering if the hospital is busy today. Wondering how I have any space to complain. He reassures me he is fine. He always does, though he never will be by any medical standard. He never wanted anyone else to be part of his suffering. 231127 what's it to you? who go blather from