Chronic

There are times I wish I could forget what it felt like to be whole. To be pain-free, light, unburdened by disease, discomfort, and the prison of a failing body.

If I could forget, then maybe I could be content with the ruins of my temple now. Appreciate the mysteries that come with age and imperfection.

But I remember wind in my hair from running through woods and the sweet ache of biking too far, too long, clean sweat washed away in a cool shower.

Now, a walk around the block leaves me tired for a week. Standing through a shower is torture. My brain often feels like it must punch through fog, an exercise in futility.

I can't forget, so I'll forgive my body for not living up to its memory.

I'll find beauty in the moment, smiles and laughter all the more precious for being rare.

They say time heals all wounds. The great Chrono-Healer. How ironic, then, for my pain to be chronic.