I’m sick today. I was sick yesterday. I was sick the day before. I’ll probably be sick tomorrow. Some of this sickness is a common cold, but some of this sickness is a soul-deep disgust with the world that bombs Rafah during the fucking Super Bowl. I know that this disgust and dissonance is the human response, yet it still debilitates me. Some of that is necessary, but I cannot fight to prevent this horror from continuing if I drown in despair. I can breathe when I am with my loved ones. When I am speaking to those who see the same world that I do. It hurts that my physical sickness is preventing me from feeling the solidarity that will heal my soul sickness.
I’ve been beating myself up all day over my inability to be “productive”, but I’m also so terrible at letting myself rest. I know, deep in my brain, that what I need is to do as little as possible. What I need is to rest. What I need is to sleep. That will allow me to get back up and fight harder. Despite this, our enemies do not rest. As much as I know that if I do not rest I will soon be unable to fight at all, it is so hard to give myself permission to do so. I’ve been conditioned to not rest. To push through the disease and fatigue no matter what.
I’m not sure what I’m writing here. I think that I sat down with the idea in mind to try to get back to some connection with the world. In a foggy and congested brain, in a horrific and depraved world, it is hard to stay focused on what matters. Sometimes writing helps me do that, so here I am.
I have so much work to do. So much of that work would be helped by resting. Yet I do not let myself. I hope you’re taking care of yourself. I haven’t seen myself in a few days.
I’ll leave you with a poem I’m proud of:
Dialectic 3
I let the waves wash over me.
I do not resist the tide.
I walk
or I swim
through the shifting waters,
refusing to drown.
I resist the dunes,
but I do not refuse the sand.
The sea is my home;
its gentle contours,
its violent rage.
When was the last time
you felt at peace?