Apparently “In the Ghetto” is an Elvis Presley song. I’m not good with music. I love music, all kinds of music, but I’m terrible at remembering the names of things where music is concerned. Ask me about my favorite comic book writer or artist and I’ll give you all kinds of information. I’ll give you my views on style, form, layout, story, structure; ask me about music and I’ll shrug my shoulders and give you vague ideas and say ‘not country music’.
There’s very little country music I like. It goes to my deep seeded hatred of Texas. I wish I had a good reason not to like Texas, but I don’t. It’s like my music issue. I love music, but I can’t tell you what I like. I hate Texas, but I can’t tell you what I hate about it.
I had about two hours of sleep last night, but the pain woke me up and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I dream pain. In some dreams I’m being tortured and I can’t escape, in others, I’m just paralyzed and suffering. Those are always bad days, the days I dream in Technicolor pain.
I sometimes want to cut into my thigh, the one that I have almost no feeling in, just to see if I’ll feel it. I doubt that I will, but I wonder. The pain there is deep, riding on the nerve that goes all the way down, but the skin has almost no sensation at all. I wonder how deep I’d need to cut before I felt something. Those thoughts only come to me when I’m exhausted from hurting and want to try anything to stop it, to have some kind of relief.
Sadly, there really isn’t any relief. There’s no escaping. I don’t have a day off, or a moment of peace. I can’t even dream the pain away because it follows me there, reminding me that it’s waiting for me.
Two hours of sleep last night, and I’m not sure how much I slept yesterday. I wonder what normal people feel like. I wonder if they dream in color, and if they know the flavor of pain. Sometimes it’s copper, or tastes of tin. There’s the burning, the cutting, the dull ache. I know the stabbing and shooting, but you can’t forget the grinding or the shards of glass that lodge themselves in the joints.
I wonder if I learned more about music, I could equate my pain to that instead of color and taste. Probably not. I’m not that kind of artist. All I know is color, texture, shape. I like to cook, and I see a plate as another kind of canvas. Its colors, textures, and taste. Music, for me, doesn’t hold that kind of form, so I just listen to it, and it washes over me. I like music, but I won’t ever know it the way most people do. That just isn’t where my heart lies.
If you ever find yourself robbed of the very thing you love most, like I am most days, and usually by my own body, remember that it’s still there, in your heart. Be it music, or art, or science, or faith. What your heart holds dearest will always be with you, in the soul of you.
I have to lie down now. It hurts too much, and I’m not even sure if I made any sense at all. My eyes burn with exhaustion, and I pray for a dreamless sleep.
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