Sometimes I like to curl up in bed. I guess I believe the pain won’t find me this way.Or maybe I look like a shield this way—worn and used, but still ready to take a hit.I really like to think about medieval times—knights and dragons. They seem so far away under all their iron armor and stuff, but somehow also free, roaming the kingdom on horseback and thinking about beautiful flowers they can hand to the queen.

Well, maybe I can feel like a knight—only that my armor is the blanket, and my sword is hope. My enemies are plentiful and everywhere. Like hordes of barbaric outlaws, they are raw, intense, and without mercy.

I wish magic was a thing, though. Think of wizards and witches, tales and potions. It feels like whenever they encounter some stupid problem, they just mix weird little flowers with random patches of moss and some elfish blood—or other useless things—and suddenly they have a cure.

If I were a wizard, though, I think I’d bless all my friends with little useless spells. Things like always smelling like they just stepped out of the shower... Magic would be fun—that, I’m sure of.

But there is no magic. At least, not for some things in life. Like when your body decides to disintegrate. So I have to wait.

Waiting and praying are my spells and potions, my armor and shield, my inner truth and outer experience.