#degenerative

“I’m fine.” I’m dull, duller, the pain is dull, my body’s dull, my mind is dull, throbbing, reaching, writhing, rebelling but ultimately dull, ineffective, wading through water, failing, falling.

“I’m fine.” I don’t know what “fine” means anymore. The definition is constantly changing, standards lowering to the lowest common denominator, “bearable”, and then lower to “I’m not screaming”, lower still to “ar least I’m alive”, to “it’s still worth it”, to “I have no words for this but I suppose fine will do”.

“I’m fine.” I’m on life support. The pills, the cane, the books and the games, the ideas and the projects, they may as well be machines, beeping away, trying to hold back the tide of mortality, a flimsy shield I hide behind because I couldn’t live without it.

“I’m fine.” It’s still worth it, the ride is still good, the train hasn’t yet reached my stop. It’s no eternal engine, though, and I don’t know how many more rotations my body has left, how many rotations I have left. I love the ride, and I’m terrified of the day I’ll want to step off. The light at the end of the tunnel is just that: the end.

“I’m fine.” I can’t bear to see you mourning me when I look in your eyes.

“I’m fine.” Some days I don’t feel like a person, just a pile of compromised flesh and brittle bone carrying in through sheer animal survival instinct.

“I’m fine.” I love you. I don’t know how to give even the smallest part of this to you. Who could put this on someone they love?

“I’m fine, really.” I haven’t been fine in so long I sometimes circle back around to believing it.

“I’m fine, I promise.” I don’t know what I’ll do if you don’t believe. This is the only promise I don’t keep.