Textling #4

Amongst all the f-words fatigue is the worst. M.E. is like a burglar who steals from you every minute of every day. Its booty is your energy, half a sackful of cognitive functions and whatever else it can find. Out goes your profession, your social life; your mobility, vision, memory; your ability to look after yourself without help; your idiosyncratic vitality – in short: the way you were in the world. Hardest though: your intelligence curls up in a ball and rolls out of reach and you lie in wait for those rare instants when you can seize it by the scruff of its scrawny neck and pull it from under bed, for a wee while.

I’m a squeezer of moments, a wrestler of worth and meaning from lucid periods that are never long enough. As soon as I have the tiniest ounce of energy I want things luminous!

This is not a lament or an exercise in melancholy or a hero’s tale, but an attempt to insert myself into the world, worm myself and all those other invisible ones into your consciousness with my words, my craft, my artistry. And while I’m at it I might as well try to turn a bit of straw into gold…


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