The words just sit there. The guilt sits behind them. Yet nothing moves. I plead with the clock to slow down, to let me gather whatever’s lying around so I do not feel like a fraud. Yet nothing comes. It is as if I am spent from fighting the cancer in my beloved, and while the movie reel in my head sputters along, the projection screen is blank.
I can’t stop thinking of writing, and seeing every conversation as potential dialogue. It’s as if my body is become one huge receptacle for ideas and possible stories. Yet I want it to stop. I feel like Scott Summers from the Xmen, unless I put some glasses on, I can’t stop the lasers from destroying the world near m me.
Just stop, I beg regretting ever having starting this muse yet it grows just like the enemy in my love. Her body betrayed her and now I feel like my mind is doing the same. The words keep growing and I pray they don’t spread to my hands because I need the energy and the strength to by her side.
I want nothing except for her. She is my life. Without her, I am just another person, but together we become one unit that can take on the world. But we have been let down by our bodies, hers turning against her and making her wonder what she did to deserve this and mine seeing everything as a reason to write.
But both of us are wrong. All we is the present and blame worry sadness don’t belong because the reality is we will both survive, one as a writer and one as former cancer patient. That is our new reality. It doesn’t take anything away from us, it just has made us a thousand times stronger.
While we will kill one cancer, we will allow another one to spread so it can kill the doubts worries and sadness in others. In hindsight, maybe being an X Man, isn’t such a bad thing.