I washed nine dozen eggs today...I confess it was probably the most productive thing I did this day.
If my state of well-being today was to be compared to an egg, it would probably look something like this neat-looking speckled thing.
Instead of being a smooth, un-freckled surface, it was filled with moments (the spots) where a voice would pass heedlessly through my head (I heard the voice, but the words did not register at all)...when I would get up to do something and then turn around three times like a cat fixing to bed down--because I forgot what I was doing.
Other spots over here would be the times when I simply could not stand up straight.
Over here is an attempt to speak and my words came out a jumble of incoherent syllables. Or again, whatever I said, while coherent, was down-right stupid.
Glance over at this patch of speckles...this would be when I stood with my hands in the dishwater, my chin quivering for no real logical reason other than I felt like crying. (I didn't actually break down and cry today...but I sure felt like it a few times.)
On another section of the egg, these dark spots just might represent the knees and ankle joints that ached. I did take pause to wonder if the wet weather was a factor...but it just as possibly was not.
Over here is that strange itch on my back...naturally in that spot that I cannot reach. I am thankful for the back-scratching technique I learned from watching my departed grandfather arch his back along the corner of the kitchen.
Glance again...this is a senseless giggle over who knows what.
Or here. The mind is blank, the eyes glazed over staring into nothingness.
I joke, in this area, that my coffee will be cold by the time I finish it the rate I'm drinking it. My hands are stiff and my movements slow and ponderous.
My eyelids droop and I feel fatigued and worn.
This section over here might represent my wheezing inability to breath deeply (otherwise known as 'air hunger') and my TB-sounding cough that is almost always more pronounced in a chill wind.
So...if life were an egg, it would not be one of those pristine, perfectly shaped and colored ones with nary a flaw...but it would be like one that is more interesting to look at...speckled and spotted.
I may not always be thankful as I ought to be, but in the long run, I do believe I shall be grateful for this experience...and already it helps me to understand particular aspects about particular persons that I would not have.
Instead of being a smooth, un-freckled surface, it was filled with moments (the spots) where a voice would pass heedlessly through my head (I heard the voice, but the words did not register at all)...when I would get up to do something and then turn around three times like a cat fixing to bed down--because I forgot what I was doing.
Other spots over here would be the times when I simply could not stand up straight.
Over here is an attempt to speak and my words came out a jumble of incoherent syllables. Or again, whatever I said, while coherent, was down-right stupid.
Glance over at this patch of speckles...this would be when I stood with my hands in the dishwater, my chin quivering for no real logical reason other than I felt like crying. (I didn't actually break down and cry today...but I sure felt like it a few times.)
On another section of the egg, these dark spots just might represent the knees and ankle joints that ached. I did take pause to wonder if the wet weather was a factor...but it just as possibly was not.
Over here is that strange itch on my back...naturally in that spot that I cannot reach. I am thankful for the back-scratching technique I learned from watching my departed grandfather arch his back along the corner of the kitchen.
Glance again...this is a senseless giggle over who knows what.
Or here. The mind is blank, the eyes glazed over staring into nothingness.
I joke, in this area, that my coffee will be cold by the time I finish it the rate I'm drinking it. My hands are stiff and my movements slow and ponderous.
My eyelids droop and I feel fatigued and worn.
This section over here might represent my wheezing inability to breath deeply (otherwise known as 'air hunger') and my TB-sounding cough that is almost always more pronounced in a chill wind.
So...if life were an egg, it would not be one of those pristine, perfectly shaped and colored ones with nary a flaw...but it would be like one that is more interesting to look at...speckled and spotted.
I may not always be thankful as I ought to be, but in the long run, I do believe I shall be grateful for this experience...and already it helps me to understand particular aspects about particular persons that I would not have.
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