a diaphanous morning

And if the past should be ever so present

As to usher mine escape from the planet

Then how shall mine nature devise

To conquest the flattery of long-lived-life?

To trust is to be made whole,

To share would mine blissfulness hold.

Wherefore mine perspective of the lovely

May fail your gayety and end in tragedy.

The immensity of the ocean donning eyes

such as thine, with such melancholy shine,

The tears secreted in the safety of smiles

For thou, my lover most divine

It maketh the world still and sun die

If thou shant grace us with thine presence

If only this despondency I could fight away

And upon this desert call upon the rain.

These elegances of our love so noble,

I swear to thee, my lover, shall me to life hold.

Born into the burst of chaotic colour

Without thought, took what was given me

And in the confusion refused to attempt

To accept the bland while smiling

Heaven forbid I retain this blindfold

and this blind heart retain this hole

Grasping at the windowed fetter,

just manacles and their papered hold

With fists, bones and bloody lips,

The upperhand of a losing fight

Fragile soul of this feathery body,

Begging solely the admission of flight

Tired eyes, dusty soles, slow drag

A long and lonely stretch of dirt road

When upon the precipice of the climax

Find this livelihood utterly alone

A sigh that slips through lips

And with the grace that becomes,

This stationary body will know

The peace of finding, for the first time,

Home.

If I were to share with you all, 

And explain as much as resides

In my innermost thoughts,

Could I possibly capture your

Impossibly perfect receptions?

*

How can your manifest love

So tenderise this heart and soul

So that I am left breathless

And rendered helpless to your

Recklessly generous aptitude?

Why in heaven’s name do we even call them doctors? 

Quacks more like it. 

If she were more educated on up-and-coming treatments than the pompous oafs who claimed the title “doctorate” in their in their educational profiling, then all the sick may despair now. They refuse ancient medicines and instead deem to carry higher, vaster knowledge called “science” that can be procured in a tiny, clean, trackable, containable pill. Though you may die from it, at least it may not have been in vain but in their ongoing, revolutionary crusade thusly named “pharmaceutical companies.”

God help us all.

Scars

`

In all the world so breathtaking and new, 

How can these scars but not succumb to expectation

For the golden escape of metamorphasis

The heart so yearns for the beauty of transformation

`

Spare patience for the worn and fading

Stumbling over the speech of the weary and broken

Cannot possibly subdue the innermost fears,

The infectious deceptions of society unspoken

`

One’s self: the defacing, self-effacing manic

Cannot live with it, cannot live without

Escape the sole option to those still breathing

The end premature for the minds without doubt

`

Lending fortification to the object most hated,

How can the soul support its own bane of existence?

The conundrum of heart’s desires:

Allow the soul its freedom or the body its resilience?

`

Pray, mirror lend proper reflection momentarily,

How shall one bear these jagged scars decently?

Hidden in the remorse of passed journeys,

Or name them perfection and convey well my beauty?

How could something so insignificantly sized become the entire deciding factor of a human being? She finds it infinitely profound. Laura lay folded across her bed, arms in a tangle and hair hanging over the edge. Her blankets were forgotten in a heaped mess at the foot while her pillows made a neat nest at the head; she lay somewhere in between and upside-down. Was it morning? She couldn’t actually tell and couldn’t be bothered to. She felt a near hangover from the day before; the poison of yesterday’s news still giving her a surreal headache. Or, wait, was that a dream? Reaching her hands to the ceiling she studied her fingers. Why were they so small? How were they supposed to even fight? It must be a dream. It had to be. Looking over her shoulder she caught sight of the clock in the mirror. 5:47 am. She had three hours before she had to leave for work…

Like she had at least a hundred times before in the last twenty-three minutes she wondered what she was going to do now.

Maybe start by getting out of bed?

What a terrible idea.

“I should have stayed in bed. I should have stayed in bed. I should have stayed in bed.” You could read her thoughts all over her open face. There is nothing worse than waking up with a black hole hanging just behind your closed eyes while the rest of the world is in a state of perfected sunshine. How could everything look and feel so lovely when you can barely keep breakfast down (oh wait, you didn’t eat, that’s right) and you cannot even see straight because of the thoughts tangling themselves so in your mind. She had given up walking a quarter of an hour ago and hadn’t put much thought into where she had sat, she just needed to sit; to feel something solid and grounded beneath her. Laura could feel reality slipping away and she frantically searched for an anchor. Quick.

Deep breath. There was a sigh. You could see her whole body relax into the wood of the old chair, every muscle releasing and letting go for one small moment.

She had found herself in the sunshine. Ironic, yes, but we will disregard that. She is now sitting patiently, waiting for her dearest friend to arrive so she can share the offending announcement and be done with it. How she hated this part: the overwhelming sensation of disappointment, of bitter resignation that you fend off with that fleeting but obstinate hope. She would watch it all unfold in her friend’s eyes and be unable to reassure it away, not like last time.

Anne arrived with a kiss on the cheek and reassuring eyes. Yes, this would be much more difficult than Laura could bear. They were seated in their favourite cafe, they had ordered their normal favourite breakfast, their favourite meal. They had discussed the book she was reading, per usual. But this morning was no usual, abnormal an unapologetically somber. Anne requested it outright. Laura obliged. They were quiet tears and the smiles were sad, knowing smiles. Worst scenarios were declared impossibilities and profound love proved unbearable. Appetites were lost, though hope and smiles were not. Yes, they laughed, because that is how they react to unfounded cruelties to themselves: they make it a joke and retain the last laugh. What else should they do but take their walk in the sunshine and window shop afterward?

It’s easier to write in third person. In your psycho-analytical brain I’m sure you have already deduced me in the denial stage but I assure you I am not. I am fully aware that this is all happening to me, but you have to agree it is much more pleasant to read in the third person. If you read from my perspective, heaven forbid this actually happen to an actual, living, breathing human being. That would force you to realise your own humanity, mortality, and utter inability with attempts at controlling your own life. Sorry for the realisation, I tried to forewarn you, recall?

Today is better. I am distracted with breakfast with my kindred-spirit and work. Followed closely with more visits from my favourites and an all-understanding roommate who does not understand nor acknowledge the notion of “give up.” A charming evening, really. A charming day.

And to think,

The tiniest of cells that breathes its last of oxygen transforms into a free-radical and determines to insure his surrounding neighbours share his same fate. Because of this one tiny organism, I find myself in the dire state of fighting for my life.

I read:

“Diagnosed with cancer? Just playing life on hard mode.” Growing up with a brother over-appreciative of video gaming, I now have a full appreciation of that statement. I might just make it my motto or introductory sentence of answering the dreaded question “How are you feeling?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Just playing life on hard mode: Kicking cancer’s ass. I’m on level three and this boss is hard with no known cheats, but I’ve got this. We’re gonna win.”

I would like to amount to something in life. I would like to leave some lasting impression on the earth. Great artists and thinkers do that; who am I to aspire to such a feat? But I decided six months ago that I would not live a mediocre life. I refuse. I would rather die fighting cancer than live a static, boring, mediocre, uninspired, unimpressed life to merely die and be forgotten the next day. I would rather be the tragic story of the young dying with grace and gumption than have not story to tell at all. When I say “amount to something” I mean I would like to discover the cure for cancer or at least write something worthy of impressioning others and perhaps changing their perspectives. I would like to write something real. Genuine. Heartfelt. Inspiring. Cheesy. Because God knows the world does not have enough. If I am to fight to stay alive, I would like to prove to the world there is a reason for this fight, a fucking good reason. How dare we take life for granted? Not pertaining to how we assume we will live forever as all young people do, or how we are not grateful to be alive, no. How dare we not find something to live for. To fight for. Throw our entire being into the passionate chase and cause of it. How we while away time with useless time-fillers. Time-fillers? Why in God’s name would we want to fill time? We do not have enough of it! Amount to something in the time allotted you. I dare you. God so help me, I dare you.

Oh my, how are you still listening to my ranting? My dear reader, may you find a good ending here.

Last night she slept over at her betrothed’s house. This is not abnormal, but Sasangi and she do not sleep in the same bed ever, it’s improper and would probably give his mother an aneurysm. But they fell asleep next to each other and upon discovering them, his mother left them alone. She needed him, and his mother knew it. He could not let go of her the entire day, even in his sleep he refused. She awoke at four-thirty and decided she no loner cared if it was improper. Because that night, it was necessary. No person’s touch had ever meant so much to her. She physically need his touch, his hold or she knew she would run away and find some remote, tropical place to die alone without bothering anyone. He refuses to leave her alone. Forever she wonders how she got such a wonderful, beautiful boy? Just the way he looks at her has completely changed… or maybe just heightened. She never knew she could love someone this much without bursting or imploding.

One of her first thoughts was maybe to play the martyr now, before it gets too hard, and let him go. To have a chance at a normal life without hinderance of herself nor the agony of sickness. He never let her have the chance.

“If you want a guy that would leave and give up now, you’re dating the wrong guy. You’re stuck with me, you are the most beautiful, special human being I have ever met, which is saying something since I am the most special human being ever (insert her laugh here, he has the uncanny ability to make her belly-laugh in any circumstance). I would rather roam lonely and desperately tortured from losing you, for the next thousand years than to never have known you or loved you. I would much rather.” And every other possibly lovely, enchanting, hopeful, thing he could say. She has never seen more beautiful eyes in her entire life. Have you ever glimpsed eyes so sad, hurting, wise and understanding? Such enduring, lovely, endearing, alluring eyes that you cannot help but catch your breath? She cannot leave him, so I guess you, dear world, are stuck with her and her stubbornness for many more years to come.  

At least it will make a good story. The very first coherent thought I can recall when I first heard the news. “News” for lack of a better word. I have found myself in the precarious situation of having to tell my loved ones of my ultimately, untimely death. Has anyone ever described to you the emotions or thought processes that occur when you first hear the word “cancer” and yourself in the same sentence? Or a better question: Can they? Best question: Do you even want to hear? Why should you not just put this down and go find another book not so emotionally tying? I have no idea. You probably should, honestly. I know I wouldn’t want you poking around in my life anyway and I sure as hell don’t want to be your obnoxious tour guide. So off with you. Why are you still here? I see your quizzical face and I can tell you’re confused. So let’s rewind a couple of years and maybe give a hint of background. Since it seems you truly want to hear this story. My journal entry from the first diagnosis: “…I felt like my chest was expanding and would soon fill too much with air that I would float away. I felt all colour drain away so that I would become one with the grey wall which held my stare. Everything stopped breathing, moving, living, feeling. I felt so tired, like I could sleep for millennia and never get my fill. One coherent trail of thought finally came through, ‘Should I be crying? I thought people cried when they heard this kind of news. I don’t feel like crying. In fact, I feel nothing at all. This is probably bad. I’m so weird. Am I in shock?’ The doctor was saying something and I finally glanced back at him. What was he saying now? What did it matter? I must have not given him enough response as he was saying, ‘…really is serious. You do realise this? I know that this is a lot of information right now; do you have any questions at the moment? There is a lot to understand about the nature of melanoma and we need to do more tests…’ It was that moment that I felt infinitely alone. It hit me like a glass wall and shattered my world, stealing my breath away with it. The thought of needles, machines, blood tests, operation, radiotherapy, drugs, treatment… all of it spelled out one thing: I would be doing this alone. Just me. And there is nothing I can do about it.” The cancer had originated on a tiny mole on my ear that had gotten sunburnt nastily a year previously so surgery removed most of my left ear and all the lymph nodes in the left side of my neck along with the lump that had grown underneath the skin there. Melanoma travels through the lymph node system and obviously we did not get them out in time as— I was diagnosed the second time exactly a year later. The melanoma appeared in the same spot on my neck, this time in a stubborn blue circle. For your own sake I will skip this round, it’s full of anger, hurt, feelings of abandonment, etc. Trifles, really. I knew it would not kill me, just maim me, leave another jagged scar on my neck. Radiotherapy followed a month after operation with a month of nausea, loneliness, and burnt skin. Maybe another day I shall expound on the first two rounds I had skin-cancer. For now, be content with my story starting at the beginning of the end. I finished radiotherapy and proclaimed myself “cancer free” essentially rendering myself care free and vulnerable to the pitfall of sickening disappointment three-hundred and seventy-four days later. Now, present day, to be exact. My doctor opened the door today and asked if I had trouble breathing? Weight loss? Loss of appetite? Weird lumps? I had a lump to announce that had appeared nearly two months ago on my rump, but she had already seen it in the CT scans. Her eyes were tight, there was no normal smile there, her hands felt restless but could only hold the scans unconsciously. I saw the gaze that I should now be accustomed to: The gaze of pity. I should have seen it coming; unanticipated would be an understatement. I should have never let my father nor mother nor sister come today. I should have known it would be back. She gave the news graciously and allowed me dignity which I did not have. When you are informed of your own swiftly-approaching death you do not own your own dignity any longer; you are merely allowed it from those around you. Otherwise you are sunk in the mire of self-pity or the pity of others for dignity can only be found in the eyes of the beholder. So, she regained composure, allowed me my dignity, and informed concisely how my body is revolting against me every time I involuntarily breathe: The melanoma has appeared in four spots in my lungs. Three spots in my right and one in my left. Then we have the larger lesion in my upper thigh that I aforementioned. The only treatment for melanoma skin cancer is surgery when it appears on the surface of the skin, radiotherapy is used merely as a preventative. Once it spreads to anywhere else in the body there is nothing more that doctors can do (What, will they cut out my lungs? Remove my leg? It has already spread, more-than-likely it will appear elsewhere). Chance of curing it with use of medical science? Zero. Timeline-wise there cannot really be any estimate at this stage as melanoma is aggressive but varies from patient-to-patient. Some take a few years, some succumb irritatingly quickly. Factoring in my stubbornness with the slow but steady progression of my track record I would say I tend toward the “few years” sort. Laymen’s terms: I am dying. I’ll do you a favour and pause here. This would be the moment you collect yourself, along with your thoughts. Do you really want to continue? We all see a sad ending to this, be honest, do you actually wish to finish merely to be disappointed in the end? I didn’t think so. Don’t worry your head; I’ll never know you put this book down. If anything, you’re doing me a favour— I don’t like narrating this tale. Why are you still here? You really must be masochistic. I guessed from the beginning. Per request I shall continue. The one question I abhor proves the only question any person really asks upon discovery: How do you feel? Feelings? Surely you don’t want to talk about feelings. Not at a time like this. I only want to know how you yourself are feeling. I watch a majority’s eyes swell with tears, they try bravery on, find it does not fit quite right. Then they attempt at comforting me when they themselves need the comfort. Where are bravery and comfort in the face of mortality? It either appears in its strongest, purest of forms or disappears altogether. In the ones I trust the most I have found they will stay by my side until my dying day; which makes me one of the few truly lucky people on this earth. I find the hardest part is telling others. Watching my father crumple before my eyes rips my heart to shreds. Unless you have seen your hero fall apart I guarantee you have never felt this before. Gripping my mother’s hands until our fingers lose feeling, yet it proves not hard enough. Petting her hair in attempt to assure her of some hope… heart breaking. Holding my little sister in my lap as she cries and tries to grasp exactly what is going on makes me want to die right then and there so she will not have to suffer. Walking beside my betrothed and trying to explain all the medical implications he has just heard without saying out loud “I am dying” proves impossible. He merely holds me for a moment, understands, and leaves the room to gather himself. When he returns I see everything within him has changed. Not yet twenty years and already he has seen all the brutalities of life. His eyes have softened to melting and hold the infinity of kindness, patience, and love. Every touch seems the only thing that holds me to earth. How do human beings become the entire world to you? I naively believed I knew, though I did not comprehend until today. I want only to apologise to these wonderful human beings for my existence, if it were not for me they would not suffer. If it were not for this rebelling body of mine, not for its incompetence, they would live in blissful happiness. How dare I intrude upon their lives merely to selfishly demand their world stop because mine essentially has, until further notice. I wish no one cared. But they still ask “How do you feel? How are you?” They know I am not in pain, that I cannot feel this growth inside me yet, that it has not caused any problems thus far, they are merely reassuring and making sure that I am not acquiring undue amounts of negative emotions. But I honestly don’t have any emotions yet. Maybe I am in shock, though I tend to think otherwise. Previous times, though different, proved much more… emotional. The first inspired fear, the second merely anger. This time? I think I’m sad. It’s the thought of missing these people, not being apart of their lives, to miss seeing them happy, to miss watching who they become, what they do, how we will all turn out by the end. The “Timely End.” I desperately do not want to miss out. I feel like the five-year-old sent to bed early, the bitter disappointment that the adults shall have more fun whilst I am bored asleep. Those would be the vague outlines of how I “feel.” Granted, with the swelling, expanding, ever-transformation and formations of emotions’ tendencies I realise I will have better and far worse days. Today I will be content. Today I will be content in drowning in others’ emotions and comforting them. Content in the assuring eyes of my betrothed, and the belief in his words “We’re gonna win.” Approximately one thousand days left. One thousand days to win. One thousand days to cure cancer.