Jonathots Daily Blog
(4515)
I don’t feel good.
But I’m suspicious.
Both about feeling and about good.
Feeling seems to have such great promise until it arrives with its anemic personality and unnatural bend to the dark side.
It can’t be trusted.
First and foremost, it is not satisfied to just have a feeling—but instead, offers a diagnosis.
What I feel may be just a burpless bouncing of discomfort between my shoulder blades but is interpreted in my strain of brain as a pending heart attack.
I may just be a little breathless, but this is translated as respiratory failure.
Maybe lazy has won the day but it’s so much easier to declare it a pending crazy.
But I definitely don’t feel good.
How can I tell?
I’ve altered my schedule—my Holy of Holies.
Normally, after my kitty-kat nap, I go into the bathroom, piss and brush my teeth before heading into the music room to begin my afternoon writing session.
I did not piss, nor did I brush.
I came right to the music room and was no bettered by deleting efforts.
Something’s wrong.
Now, there is a beauty to this—and there is an ugliness.
Let me begin with the ugliness.
The ugliness is that I can accidentally sustain this feeling of uncertainty by fostering self-pity.
I can baby myself right back into the nursery.
I can convince myself of all sorts of pending gloom and doom.
Why? Because I’m fat.
That means every chest discomfort could be a coronary.
Every breathless exhibition is my BMI trying to smother me.
And every single pain that might exist in my legs is my aging, tackling me for the grave.
So you see, if I don’t get out of this mode, it will turn into a bad mood and it can mold my whole evening.
So I come into the music room to talk to you about it today.
I am not anticipating sympathy.
I’m not requiring that you confirm your mercy in my direction.
I’m using you as a sounding board. Maybe abusing you would be more accurate.
Because I don’t feel good.
But I will tell you that even as I talk to you about this, I feel a little bit better.
That little tiny headachy part in the front of my brow is gradually dissipating.
I know it’s nothing serious—I know I’ve underdone something, when overdoing would have been welcome.
Or I’ve overdone a plate of something when a saucer was in order.
But it doesn’t make it any easier.
I am fully aware that I am childish about my concerns and need to at least deduct the “hypo” off of my “chondria.”
Also—I owe myself a piss and a brush.
When will that happen? Is that gone for all time? Have I robbed my self of a urination and a tooth cleansing?
You can see, it can become very complicated.
I don’t feel good.
I don’t think it’s going to end with my demise.
But I have to admit, there are times it does reprise,
And is important for me to know how to surmise.
Jonathots Daily Blog 