Now this is a constant. If I am sick and if I am awake, yes, I will admit it, I think I am going to die. Have you had this feeling? Thoughts of human frailty come flashing past, instantaneously unaffected by my affliction, the world outside looks serenely unconcerned. I stared outside my window last night. I was sick. The street lights were so beautiful as they fell on the granite embankment of the stream that runs through Artiste Village. My stomach was hurting bad and my world was going to end soon. Something was clawing at my inside, suffusing my body with throbbing pain. I crawl out of bed and go to the floor below. I lie down on a mat there, but still the pain wouldn’t go away. I drink a lot of water, better for a few seconds, again the pain starts. I guess old age is approaching ever so slowly. But my parents were both healthy till their mid-eighties. Why am I suffering? Then they were robust people, had good food and not junk as I do. They don’t sit in front of a computer for hours and lose themselves into a make-believe world. They didn’t commute for four hours every day. They don’t claim to be “writer, poet, and blogger.” But decisions once made have to be stuck to, even if it means a bit of embarrassment and pain, at times like these. I feel helpless. I pray.
Then the pain goes away. I sleep a tired sleep. No, I am not going to die, at least, not today.