Oh, Lady Macbeth, how true your words are. Whether it's the wine stain in the carpet or the tumors invading my dad's body, they just don't seem to go away. Unfortunately, this is a sad version of non-fiction that not even Shakespeare can rival: this is a tragedy of epic proportions. Despite the advances that modern medicine has made, this is the little cancer that could, and it's determined to kill him. On an even more disturbing level is my break up with reality. I've been swimming in disillusionment for the last year and a half. Wading in circles, not drowning, but never making it past the first buoy.
I sat by the fireplace last night and just listened to the crackle. Listened to the flame eat away at the wood. It resembles the slight sizzle I hear as I inhale my cigarette, and I imagine it's doing the same to my lungs. I imagine it's what it's done to my dad.
In this thought, a strange realization takes place, and it's what scares me the most about my habit. For years, I have marveled at how can everyone else not be ready to die and see His face in the same way that I am. There is a quiet solace and contentment that I get imagining flying through the air to meet my Creator and leaving behind all worry and anxiety. Sooner, rather than later. I am envious of my dad that he will experience this peace before me. It is this thought and envy that carries me through any attempt to quit, even when I had my first taste of anger at the cancer. I was mad at the cigarette in my mouth and the other nine still in the pack. I proceeded to take each one out and break it in half, determined that I was now, indeed, fed up.
Each one had a letter: L-E-R-O-Y-A-N-N-A. I made it about three hours before my longing caught up with me.
No comments:
Post a Comment