It seems like only yesterday, I was cheerful, bright, and gay … looking forward to …what was that again? An operation? I had an operation? I did? I did.
Don't remember one single part of it though. Last conscious memory…being wheeled down a hallway. Well, it's 4 weeks and 3 days later, and I just now feel remotely like sitting down and writing … anything … let alone a blog post.
Blame it on what? The wholly unanticipated consequences and after shock of having one's body opened up, "repaired," and then put back together again (truth be told, I actually had two operations, but that is a story for a blog not yet born)? The underestimated physical and mental stress demands that are placed upon that little body? The mindset - never did I think there would be this long or bothersome "recovery" period. Which is still well under way, by the way.
And that brings me to the most current and active reason …. drugs. When you are under the influence of Mr. Morphine and Mr. Oxycodone, you really don't feel like doing anything. Suspended twixt slumber and awareness, writing is not one of the things that even enters your life. Believe me, drugs are NOT an inspiration to writing or creativity. Now, a good beer or three, or a large wine or two … those can inspire rocks to literature.
So, once the drugs have ceased their hold and purged themselves from my vessels to make room for the true inspiration of the pen, then will you see a blog post. There's lots to tell, if ultimately I feel like it. And can remember it. Hopefully, it won't be long.
Mark Twain Quote: "Man seems to be a rickety poor sort of a thing, any way you take him; a kind of British Museum of infirmities and inferiorities. He is always undergoing repairs. A machine that was as unreliable as he is would have no market."
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