Living in the gaps between disasters
In the last few years some extremely bad things have happened to me, and I can see more bad things coming. I exist in the lulls between storms, forever dealing with the aftermath of disasters past. I'm not enveloped by a blanket of depression though, I can still take pleasure in the pleasurable; it's just that the list of possible pleasures shrinks daily.
Sometimes (always) I miss:
Walking on a bronze beach; peering into limpid pools; warm foam licking at my toes
Limbs blurring on glowing boulders; sweat-slicked shoulders; sun-sparkled grit abrasive under chalk-coated fingers
Running down a ridge with the earth falling away from my feet; a sudden bird soaring over the world
Writing as though my life depends on it (it does)
This doesn't have a life-affirming ending. I know that I am too young to be looking backward, memory-shielded from the future. It's possible that the course of my illness will be reversed, that I will be turned around, but if not then I will be the one who says when the pain stops.