"B-o-o-o-o-o! And To All, A Most Happy Halloween!"

“B~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O!
And To All, A Most Happy Halloween!!!”

(“From goulies and ghosties and long-leggedly beasties and things that go bump in the night Good Lord, deliver us!”-from an ancient Scottish prayer, often mistakenly attributed to the Scottish poet, Robert ‘Robbie' Burns.)

 

10/26/13

 

‘An American Halloween’

 

To my very dearest friends, and always kind readers,

 

 

It is now late Fall, and there’s a decided crispness in the cooler evening air.

The leaves of trees are changing color; the ones yet unraked scatter, and blow into drifts across yards, and sidewalks, and crunch when walked-upon.

The holidays that—like freight trains—follow one after the other, heralding the end of the year are still far-enough away to be worrisome.

 

 

 

In less than a week from now, it will be ‘Halloween'! A time of chills and thrills, sudden, ‘surprises', cackling laughter, ever deepening shadows, misty, full-moon nights, pumpkins, lit by candle from within, black cats, noisy, ‘spooks', spider web (hopefully, without the spiders!), candy corn, and the joyous peals of children's laughter as they, in every manner of costume, trudge holding half-full bags of ‘treats'--from welcoming door to welcoming door.

Can witches aboard broomsticks, flying fast and low, be seen outlined against the moon? Can you hear the rattle of chains, the squeal of rusted door hinges, or the, ‘whooshing', fluttering of bats as they-too-fly through the air?

For children, it once was-and still should be-a time of pretend, of being anything they may want to be; walking single-file (accompanied by adult supervision, and in, ‘safe', neighborhoods) down sidewalks in a thousand neighborhoods, looking for the houses that invite with porch light on, and welcoming open front door.

There to, ‘show-off', their many wildly colored, and wonderful dress, to adult homeowners who suddenly, ‘have to guess and guess what each little, ‘treater', represents.

 

There are always costumes of the, ‘Superhero’s', in current vogue...Batmen, and Batgirls, Supermen, and, Supergirls; and let us not forget, ‘X-men'!

 

But more traditional outfits include a spate of would-be Firemen, Princesses, Farmers, Faeries, Witches, and Ghosts; plus costumes that reflect childhood, ‘want-to-be's'.

It is the children who know exactly what the ,’modern’, American Halloween is all about: the chance to play, and to pretend; to assume-for one, brief night-whatever persona they choose.

 

 

And they LOVE it! Fully as much-if not more-than the candy treats they hope to receive.

 

 

I ask you, my very dearest friends, when was the LAST time you went out, ‘trick-or-treating'? Not--mind you--as one of the supervising adults. But rather, part of that happy throng that delighted in playing, ‘dress up'?

 

In October of 1963--when I was nine years old--it was the very last time my mother and father allowed me to go from door to door, in costume, yelling, ‘Trick-or-treat!!!!', jostling my way to an open front door to be given my, ‘bribe'... goodies, against potential, ‘tricks'.

 

I chose my own costume, and was very proud of it. I had on a plastic face mask that was held in place by an elastic band over my ears and around the back of my head.

The mask had two, little holes beneath the nostrils to facilitate breathing, and into them I attached a long, black moustache.

I wore a long, black raincoat I had, with my galoshes for shoes. I wore a plastic, black derby, and carried a plastic pumpkin.

That Christmas-before-I had asked for (and had been given) one of those children's, ‘doctor sets', that included a bright red stethoscope, a, ‘doctor's bag', and a bottle of sugar, ‘pills'. And so, I wore the stethoscope around my neck. Somehow, I also managed to carry a grocery bag to collect candy in.

 

And I was set! For that one night, anyway, I was not a nine year old, ‘Zahc', but rather, the nefarious, Dr. S. J. Smith. [I even made up the name!].

 

My mom and dad thought I looked SO cute, that they brought the camera out; and somewhere, lost amid the numerous and ancient family albums is a photograph of me, leaning slightly towards (and, menacingly!) at the camera, holding out my plastic pumpkin.

And oddly-somehow-the personage of Dr. S. J. Smith lingered on for a number of years, as whenever my folks needed a form witnessed, I would scrawl upon it, ‘S. J. Smith, M. D.

And out I went, coming home again, and again so that my dear father could upend the contents of each, nearly-full bag out upon the dining table. And what a cache of treats there were!

 

Little root beer barrels, little grape barrels, toffee, gum, boxes of raisins, the odd candied apple, popcorn balls, home-made cookies, jellybeans by the kilo; and candy corn, candy corn, and more candy corn.

 

Since we lived at Ft. Hood, Texas, and in a duplex on base, there were miles, and miles of sidewalks to cover, not to mention repeat visits to houses that gave out the best stuff!, a veritable mountain of candy quickly formed on our dining room table.

Of course-even in ‘those' days, there were warnings of apples containing razor blades, and of loose stuff being, ‘doctored', with poisons. And so-from that enormous ziggurat of treats-my mother and father discarded anything loose; there went the candied apples, the popcorn balls, the cookies, and the jellybeans! While I wanted to at least try a couple of cookies!

 

Both then until now, I have never been particularly fond of candy, per se, though certainly chocolate has NEVER been a stranger in THIS house!

 

And at Easter, those super, super sweet Cadbury, ‘eggs'...WOW, a guaranteed ‘sugar rush' in every bite! But, my dearest friends, I digress.

However, this general dislike helped to make me more popular than my, ‘geekishness’, would otherwise have conferred as I was the ONLY kid on the block who still had Halloween candy in May!

 

 

Of course, the next year-when I was ten-I was deemed, ‘too old’, to go a trick-or-treating, but--instead--took on the duty of handing of the candy, while my folks mostly just watched TeeVee. Sigh.

 

 

And although that was [gasp!] a little more than fifty years ago, some things--thank God--seem to have remained changeless:

1) The childhood ability to, ‘pretend', to imagine, to don personas as they would socks.

2) The ability to dream, to laugh without self-consciousness. To have fun on an elemental basis.

3) Most importantly--unlike adults--they have retained the ability to, ‘play'.

 

Admittedly, though ideally, children have time to do these things, quite apart from duty and expectation, until such time as they too are expected to don the mantle of responsibility, the, ‘rite', of passage--as it were--in order to become respectable, if predictable, ‘grown-ups'.

 

Though, in the traditions of the Amish community, there is recognized a set time from about age sixteen to marriage known as, "Rumspringa", or, ‘youth period', during which the strict tenets of Amish belief are relaxed, to allow an individual time to, ‘play', or to, ‘blow off a little steam', before having to settle down, start a farm, marry, and have children!

 

Well before the time we become, ‘adults', ‘play', as such, is literally beaten out of us with, 'grown-up', responsibilities, duties, and obligations taking the ascendant.

‘Play' is thought of as wasting time, effort, money, and considered, moreover, to be juvenile, and unproductive. It is even thought--derogatorily so--as being foolish or downright, ‘silly'. And we learn our lessons only too well.

Oh, one might-on occasion-play tennis, golf, or go bowling, etc., these pastimes are actually more like work, as they are ordered, have specific rules, and-in general-involve a decided measure of competitiveness!

 

‘Play' knows no hours, no rules, nor any competition to be thoroughly participated in and enjoyed.

 

I would think that we all would like to be happy, secure, and fulfilled. But in striving to become so, somehow, ‘play' (for the most part), got left out in the rain and sleet.

 

I kindly ask you to consider this: about the only times we as adults ‘play', is on those rare occasions when we frisk-about with our pets, or actually get down on the floor to play with one's children or grandchildren.

And when the grandchildren have left, or gone to sleep, how often have you sat down to really read, "The Cat In The Hat", by Dr. Seuss? Or picked up a couple of crayons and tried to color?

 

Admittedly-then-we NEED to, ‘play'; to, ‘cut loose', to relax, and have fun!

 

And yet, I would propose that we need to consider, ‘play', as a measure of happiness, well-adjustment, and...sense of peace.

 

 

That is—perhaps, why--Halloween is my particular, personal favorite among all recognized, American Holidays.

 

Although it is too frequent among adults, (especially a quality practically buried somewhere in the past) the notion of, ‘play', can still be found, if truly searched for.

 

While I am not particularly recommending that you seat-yourself on the floor of a toy store, and begin playing with trucks, and making, ‘truck sounds' (though about ten years ago, I did just that in a local pharmacy, playing with toy dinosaurs while waiting for a prescription to be filled!

Of course I got stared at. But at that very moment, I found I was laughing, and genuinely having fun! And...I bought four or five toy dinosaurs to bring home! You can certainly start off small.

 

For example, the next time you have to go grocery shopping, pretend that you are someone else.

At the register, assume a different voice, a different body posture. You can be, really, anyone you want from rock star, to historic figure.

 

Do not leave a toy section in a store unexplored. If the mood strikes you, buy a couple of toys for yourself!

 

Try to look at Nature the way a child does, full of colors, changes, magic, and wonderment.

 

We all could use a little childlike, ‘awe', in our lives. Please note that I did not say, ‘childish'.

 

As an adult, you can still carve pumpkin, make Halloween decorations, or have little candles in the shape of funny ghosts or, arched-back black cats, or of little pumpkins and gourds upon which have been drawn, ‘spooky’, grins.

 

None of them need be frightening, or terrifying to elicit (from those who see them), little, ‘bat squeaks’, of surprise and delight.

 

 

And on this upcoming Halloween, as you're standing near the door to, ‘ooh and ah', over each costume while giving out candy, if you simply cannot dress up in character for the evening, at least save some of the best candy you like for you!!!!!!!!!

 

 

I wish for you no pain, or, if it MUST be, then certainly lessened pain, more easily tolerated.  I wish for you (as the days become shorter until December 21^st, or, the Winter Solstice).

 

I wish that you not know want, or despairing, but—rather—have plenty to spare and share!

 

I wish so much for you peaceful and untroubled afternoons.

 

And, as Halloween approaches, I wish for you a measured return to childlike joys, and happiness, surrounded by the ones who love you.

 

And nights of blissful and restorative sleep, watched-over, and kept safe always, by gentle angels.

 

My very, very dearest friends, please know that I think of you so very often, and want you to be well, secure, happy, and able to freely enjoy life.

 

And please, please always know that I love you dearly!

 

 

 'Zahc'/Charles

"The Everyday Hero"

“The Everyday Hero”

 

10/17/13

 

To my always dear, dear friends, and ever-loyal, constant readers,

 

 

“The Everyday Hero”

 

 

We know who they are.

And yet, since they work quietly, out of the public eye, and to often little or no acclaim, they are invisible to us.

 

They are…

 

The many volunteers who work in food banks in communities across the Nation, providing hope, where there was hunger.

 

They are the nurses and staff in Hospices who provide a caring, and loving environment to those in pain at life’s end.

 

They are the councilors, and staff who must often work in secret at Domestic Violence and Abuse shelters, giving abused women, children…and, men a safe refuge, while helping them to begin a new life, free from the evil shackles of abuse and danger.

 

They are the many volunteers who rescue abused and maimed animals, helping to provide needed medical care and foster homes, and permanent placement with loving families.

 

They are the nurses, firefighters, law enforcement officers who labor to save lives and restore health.

 

They are our educators—often working with diminished resources to enliven young (and old!) minds with the joy of learning.

 

All too often, we are too preoccupied with the lives and careers of Hollywood, recording stars, and the transient vagaries of noted sports figures, that we forget who our true heroes are.

 

 

And, what about you, my dear, and precious friends?

 

Every time you send a hug, or write a gladsome, PM’, you are spreading hope and healing.

When you take time to read—and, comment to—diary entries, you give the author a voice, and a sense of meaning and purpose.

 

Whenever you create a thread, or respond to a thread, or reach out to a troubled and despairing newcomer, you send messages of hope, of encouragement, valuable information, and a greater sense of belonging.

 

 

To me, that is also the definition of a daily hero; one who has experienced the pain, the depression, and the despairing without giving up hope.

 

More than that few number who have successfully climbed Mt. Everest, or dropped twenty miles by special parachute above the earth.

Much more than those who have establish Olympic records.  Or started another successful internet enterprise.

 

All you really need do—in my decided estimation—to find an everyday hero…is to stop briefly, to glance in any convenient mirror!

 

I wish so much for you days without pain, without trial, without need, or despair.

I wish for you pleasant days and restful afternoons.

I wish for you to be surrounded by those who truly love you.

And then, I would wish for you nights of restorative and blissful sleep, as always, watched-over, and kept safe by gentle angels.

 

 

Please, please know that I think of you so very often, and, that I love you dearly!

 

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

"Half Drugged-up, And Yet...Not Half Drugged-up Enough"

“Half Drugged-up, And Yet...Not Half Drugged-up Enough”

 

 

 

10/07/13

 

 

To my very, very dearest friends, and always loyal readers,

 

 

Well…it finally had to happen, I guess.

It took almost twelve years, but I finally made it.

 

It seems a lifetime, now, but when I first embraced illness and disability, there was a pain that I could manage. 

 

Oh, the depression, agoraphobia, and panic were there is full force; but I had—maybe—three different pills for it, and an inhaler. 

All around the merry clock, I patiently took my medications, and they worked, in part, because I still believed they would work; that in some pharmaceutical conjuring, this, “medicine”, would do the trick.  Restore a kind of health and balance.  Take away the pain.  Soothe-away the anxiety.  Relieve the depression.

Despite my having nightly, spontaneous panic attacks that nearly threw me out of bed, I still felt as if a docent’s night sleep had been arranged.

Why…in those days, I could—with increasing reluctance—run a list of errands, and even drive my car.

I was forty-eight years old, took what my varied doctors told me upon faith as, after all…they should, ‘know’.  And I believed them.

 

 

The year 2006 was one of agony, dread, and disappointment.  My then-shrink swapped my pills for others (by now, I was taking six or seven of them a day, at set times during the day) which failed to work sufficiently (along with withdrawal), that I very nearly lost my mind, and everything dear to me.

 

 

I will be sixty years old in just a couple of fleeting months.  Oh my dearest friends, how I have been etched by agony, passing back and forth through the molten fire of pain, and the relentlentness of it and the loss of Grace, and in a panicked suspicion that something…everything is wrong. 

I tended-well to that little, evil garden that was my medications, and watched them blossom into fifteen, then twenty-six, then (at is is at present) thirty-six different pills, vitamins, supplements. Two inhalers and two opiates.

At least three times a day, I find my week-long, pillbox full of either this or that or the other to take.

 

I lost my the majority of my belief—except for some waning bargaining rights—in all this shit, and have long-ago lost my respect for my doctors about the very first time they said, “Well…let’s try THIS, and see if it helps,” as they reached behind to (usually) a wooden chest full of drug samples.  One quipped,”…that’s why they call it the, ‘practice’, of medicine.

I dumped his ass just as soon as I could find another.

 

 

But especially in these past four years of heavy duty so-called, ‘Pain Management’, never ONCE did I fool-around with my opiate, recognizable, I hope, by referring to it as the, ‘big ‘M’’.

 

 

Until late last week.

 

 

On Thursday, I found myself quite awash in unutterable agony, pounding and pounding migraine, shaking, sweating, crying…yes, crying-out to God, to His Son…to, well, anybody I thought would listen.

There are times when pain becomes an almost, ‘out of body’, experience; I could not move. I could not keep my eyes open.

Regrettably—though—I had already taken the opiate not two hours before, and in my full-flung flight for some kind of major relief, absolution, or just plain oblivion, I staggered into bed.

It was just 6:30 PM.

 

It’s like a thing one deep-down knows one shouldn’t do, but, hell, I took yet another one; certainly—I thought—safely not-enough to overdose.

 

Up and down, here and there I was dragged in and up and out of a light but tortured sleep; I began to see exploding stars behind closed eye lids.

The pain ricocheted off every wall and all around the room.

I panicked. I threw-myself from side to side in a bed I was now roasting in.

Pleas followed prayers, and I was sorry for everything.

 

 

There are those levels of Hell we can only imagine, and those, we can only see too well.

 

Maybe it was somewhere around dawn, that—still in a mass of pain, but too exhausted now to care very much—I finally fell into a fitful nap.

The night had been a side-show circus of horrors.

 

 

And what, my most precious friends, did I learn?

 

 

Reluctantly, I guess that there will always be some greater depth of pain that—to my utter disappointment—nothing will touch.  What to do, then, but…to endure…endure, with eyes tightly shut and fists clenched.

It’s O.K. to argue with God; I think He understands.

 

 

But to you, my dear, dear friends my loving caution to please never, ever, never play freely with your medication, self-dosing at will, in pursuit of need.

At least the pharmacy gives you guarded parameters on dosage and frequency.  Please, please heed them well.  I would not ever wish you any more distress than you have now.

 

In wishing for myself, I also wish so much for you:

 

No pain, or if it must be…lessened pain; deliverance from financial need, distress or despairing.

I wish for you balmy, bright, and untroubled days, and afternoons of contemplative quiet.

May you always be in-full surrounded by family, friends (or, pets!), who—frankly—adore you, and love you for the very special person that you are.

 

I would be remiss if I did not speak to you of my gratitude in your having befriended me; you cannot know how that gladdens my heart.

 

And then I would wish you dreamy, comfortable, and blissful sleep.  True and restorative, and—as ever—kept safe and watched-over by gentle angels.

 

Please, please know that I think about you often, and so fondly, and that I love you dearly!

 

 

‘Zahc’/Charles

P.S. A glance at my Profile (at MDJunction) has revealed a new feature: apparently now, all of my diary entries—almost all, from the beginning—can be perused at your convenience.

Should you so choose, your comments would be so very, greatly appreciated; their often what helps me get-though a day.

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"And Then I Fall"

Sep 25 2013

"And Then I Fall"

09/25/13

To my very dearest friends, and ever-loyal readers,

I think it is just before midnight, and a pained and headached  glance back to the clock in the kitchen reassures that this is true; however, I suspect that it may be lying to me. For-in truth-it might as well be 10:00, or 11:00, or even 5:00.
Over the years, I have managed to, ‘collect', some thirteen clocks, all of which keep their own idiosyncratic version of time...even the ones that no longer work.
And then I fall.
I awoke with head in hands, dozing at the counter in the kitchen, and gradually, reluctantly waken with a dull and throbbing migraine that keeps its own time with the thrum of unbearable pain and depression.
Several half-spent cigarettes lie forgotten, spread-around in front of me; some have fallen from my hand to land on the kitchen floor, even those that have-in their erratic descent--burned holes in my pajamas.
The house is naturally too-quiet, and the light of two or three forty watt bulbs offer pools of dim light over the living room and the rest of the house. I have never felt as completely alone as I do now, for the pressure of that quiet upon my ears is almost deafening. I suppose I should get up, and go to bed.
And then I fall.
Sitting up, standing up, and moving proves tiring, and each posture resounds with its own jagged pain.
While still sitting there, I pause to drink a couple of sips of coffee, left over from this afternoon; it is brackish, and bitter and oily in its clotted coldness. I find that I-too-am cold; so very, very cold, shivering from fatigue and pain (always the pain). But that quarter cup of coffee that remains, is sufficient to wash-down a couple of pain pills, though I know it will take an eternity of, ‘mind and body', time, before I even begin to feel the slow loosening of my agony.
And then I fall.
Staggering to my feet that-by now-are all-over, ‘pins and needles', or, are numb, I check my front door to satisfy myself that the all the doors are indeed locked, and that the alarm system has been activated. Somehow, I must check and recheck it three or four times before I am content.
While at the door, my gaze moves slightly about the room. My furniture is overly dusty, to be sure, but-somehow-that state of cobwebbed untidiness offers-up reliable comfort after a fashion. I like my house, my little home; and am glad that-some three years ago-I had the funds to fix it up to my liking.
And then I fall.
A darkened hallway leads to my bedroom, but-first-I have to make a bathroom call to pee; and then-perhaps-to pee again. Otherwise I risk the chance of waking up wet, drenched, and having to change bed linens, pajamas, and coverlets; my occasional and quite unpredictable incontinence makes me angry, but with a sadness too. It was not always like this.
And then I fall.
I finally crawl gratefully into a disorder bed, grateful because I am weary (not sleepy, or tired, certainly not the warm fuzzy, surrounding feeling, there is a difference!)
Instead, I am freezing-cold, and every joint aches.
The pain pills I took earlier have not as yet made any palpable inroads upon my glacial pain. Therein lies another illustration of the confounding and plasticity of time; time-in effect-stops, while ever-waiting for some effect of all these upon these illnesses. Minutes do pass like hours.
And then I fall.
I am tangled up in my coverlets, with bed linen scrunched up here and there, and my pillows like cold pillars of stone. I then discover that I am lying on my oxygen tubing, and have to crawl-out of bed to rearrange it, so as to not hinder the life-giving flow that my own lungs can no longer provide.
Once I have found a place in bed that hurts me the least, I exhale, shut my eyes, and try to say my prayers.
And then I fall.
The prayers that I would offer-up in gladness, in thanks, and in gratitude become-instead-a whining rant of things I want, but lack; prayers that slowly devolve into pettiness, and wish-fullness. And I am embarrassed that I cannot seem to control the content of my own prayers.
And then I fall.
And with my great depression is a sadness, a burrowing sorrow that rends my heart into disparate shreds. In silence, I begin to cry, but even with eyes that are full, no tears course-down my face. My heart-instead--is bathed with the bitter acidness of tears.
And then I fall.
It would seem that my all too broken sleep is shallow. But I do somehow, manage to sink-down to the place where dreams are created.
Very, very seldom do I have a good or entertaining dream; too frequently, I awake from dark and foreboding dreams. Dreams of terror, of being chased by monsters, or of finding myself in a hallway, infinitely long, but one that becomes smaller, and ever smaller until I am trapped, isolated and afraid.
On rare occasions, I find myself in a park; at night as the street lights are on. There are trees, nearby, and-suddenly-I want to fly to them. I struggle with all my might to, ‘flap my arms'? And am-at last aloft.
But, still, on some more rational level, I know that this cannot be so...it cannot last. Desperately, I try to fly from the top of one tree to another. But it never does last, and-in an icy panic-I fall again to earth, waking just before I hit the ground.
I must wake five or six times during the night, usually having been kicked-awake by some terrifying nightmare, or, to make one or several calls to the bathroom.
And then I fall.
Often, while I am up-though half awake-I find my way out to the kitchen, again, to have a little something to drink, and to smoke a couple of cigarettes.
And then I fall.
And this is frequently my undoing; for while there, I usually am still drowsy-enough to want to simply drift-off to sleep. In consequence I often drop lit cigarettes to burn my fingers, arms, or legs; nearly ALL my pajamas have burn holes in them.
Or, in sleepily stretching-out my arms I have knocked glasses of tea off the counter, or, half-cups of coffee, to make a royal mess on the floor that I find the next day.
I have NO idea why I do this; perhaps I can breathe a little better sitting up; perhaps I find some needed warmth from the counter light, or from the lamps lit in the living room.
Often-if I have not already done so-I will take a sleeping pill, and a little more pain medication; I then lumber-down the hall back to a now-cold bed, to try to salvage sleep-enough to be able to make it through another day.
Now bundled-up in coverlets, again, I try to quiet my thoughts, and to let my mind settle-down, in search of some far-off place of perfect peace.
And then I fall.
My favorite imagining is to wake up one morning to find everything-outside-to be under a five or six foot blanket of purest snow,
Snow that has covered all the road out front, and hidden all the cars. To awake to a sound of utter silence. With drifts of snow up to the front doors of all the homes.
All the evergreen trees are full of whitest snow; even the more hearty shrubs are weighed down in a jeweled whiteness that sparkles in the light of early sunrise.
Other, large trees-having had their leaves stripped by a number of just-prior, autumn storms, raise their blackened and bony branches into a winter's blue and grey, watercolor sky.
There is a perfect silence all about; I do have food, and am sleepily warm inside the house.
I am protected, and kept safe by the snow. No one can bother me. No one can harm me.
And then I fall.
The mindless globe that is the world had once more completed its turn about its axis, and it is morning, There ensues-perhaps-a space of twenty seconds during which the mind is awake, but the body still stirs in its uncertain rest, when absolutely nothing agonizes and hurts.
Too soon, this wonderful, and God sent immunity passes.
And then I fall.
Grimly, horribly, the agony sinks in, and I moan and groan to get up, hit the bathroom, throw cold water on my face, and pause to open the curtains to the new day.
Even before I make my coffee, I begin the litany of taking pills: pills for pain (but you knew that, already). Diuretics, vitamins, supplements. Medications for my diabetes, my cholesterol. And-frankly-anything that I can find to try to alleviate a migraine that pounds with my every heartbeat.
Grimly-and with mug of blessed coffee in hand, I light the first of too many cigarettes.
Before me lies an uncertain day, assailed by all the cares of daily living: the bills I cannot pay, the pantry that is nearly empty...as is the freezer and the fridge.
The, ‘unbearableness', of the day crushes me and makes me panicky and afraid, as deprivation and always-pain settles firmly in.
How will I survive another day?
And then I fall.
There are so very, very many things that I just do not understand:
Why are even the most blissful of memories a gift wrapped-up in regret?
Why do those we most love die?
But, why do all we most detest go on and on and on, to descend like starving swine to ever-gorge themselves upon the buffet of our collected miseries?
I wish, I wish I knew.
And then I fall.
And then I fall.
And then I fall...

My dearest friends, I wish for you pain-free days, or days of much-lessened pain. I wish for you pleasant days, free from wont or despair. I wish for you afternoons of quiet contemplation, and evenings of restored happiness, in full-surrounded by family members, dearest friends, and attentive pets who love you for yourself, alone. And that you have all the happiness your hearts can hold!

And, please always know that I think of you so very often, and that I love you dearly!

‘Zahc'/Charles