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More from Seskra_The_Spider
I miss my parents' dog jumping into my lap when I'm lying on the couch. Nobody else would ever let him, because he weighs over 40 pounds and the poor guy isn't the most graceful of sorts, so it was a special treat he could only get from me. Lying there with a big, dumb, utterly content furball splayed across my body was a true joy. And now I have to tell him "No" every time he comes walking up to me, and my heart breaks a little each time I do. He wants to climb up, he can see I'm here, he can tell that I'm in pain... but he's not allowed.
I miss the movie-nights me & my roommate would have on Sundays. Sometimes they'd be new releases in the cinema, sometimes a so-bad-it's-good classic on Netflix, sometimes a wrestling pay-per-view of yore. Any which way you'd slice it, they were --and still are-- something special. My roommate is the first friend I've had in a long time who I can actually see and visit without buying plane tickets. We clicked better than a key in a lock, and we look out for each other in ways we do for only very few other people. If either of us needed anything, anything at all, help was only a stairwell away. And on Sundays we'd make dinner, shoot the breeze, put something on, and have a great time. Only now we can't.
I miss talking to my friends and to my love well into the wee hours of the morning. Trust me, I know and appreciate the benefits of a regular sleeping schedule better than most, but that doesn't mean there aren't times when it's worth being a bit groggy the next day. Be it an impromptu session of Cards Against Humanity that goes on for 13 games, a romantic encounter where you nervously but eagerly show a certain side of yourself, or just being there for someone who's feeling rattled after a long bad day: sometimes the best thing you can do is deciding to pull an all-nighter. Throw in timezones for good measure, and the simple fact of the matter is that some of my fondest memories took place long after midnight. Yet suddenly there has been a total embargo against any more such memories.
I miss playing the piano. Practicing my old standbys, advancing longstanding projects, just plain hitting random keys and stumbling across a pleasant melody. It's something of a seasonal activity, I'll admit: months can pass without a single note being heard. But I always come back for more. Middle of the day; middle of the night; hours before a crucial deadline; the piano cares not. It doesn't necessarily require a great deal of concentration so much as it does a thorough lack of distraction (and of course, the opportunity to play without bothering others). I am a far cry from what you'd call a good pianist, but precious few amateurs would ever become lauded professionals if they didn't derive some pleasure even from those early simply days. I'm sorry to say such pleasure has been in short supply for the past few weeks.
I miss being able to shower without having to exhibit near-bombsquad levels of caution whenever I get out of the shower cabin. I can put with having to sit on a stool rather than standing up. Sure, the cabin's kinda small so I need to keep my knee bent at an angle that's more than steep enough to elicit a firm, continuous pain from my newly reconstructed joint, but I can make do. No: it's getting in and getting out that's the real kicker for me. See, normally I wouldn't worry too much, if at all, about slipping in the shower. We've all done it, we all know it sucks, but we're not afraid of it. There must be thousands of close calls over the years, but the reason those are close calls is 'cause if a foot slips out from underneath us we've still got another one to fall back on. Whereas I need to be escorted out of the shower while holding on to every firm handle and utilizing every trick in the book to make sure I don't fall.
I miss visiting the market and feasting on the cornucopia of smells drifting through the air. The earthy aroma of vegetables mingling with the salacious scent of hand-ground spices, guiding my feet one step at a time. A mere whiff of freshly caught fish --lovingly displayed on a bed of ice-- is enough to make me feel as though I'm standing on the shore looking out over the North Sea, even though mere moments ago the butchers tempted me within an inch of my life with the ambrosial magnificence that is fresh dates wrapped in crispy fried bacon. And the bakers, with their countless cakes and billions of breads and sweet sumptuous snacks that don't even have names in English, right in the very heart of it all. I appreciate the convenience of a supermarket as much as the next guy, but I will gladly walk the extra two blocks any day of the week. Except I can't anymore.
I miss grabbing leftovers from the cupboard so I can snack on something while I'm working. People think of crutches as a big impediment for one's legs, but this is not the case. Far more than that, they are an impediment for one's arms. I can fill a glass of water if I'm thirsty, but I can't take it with me. I can plug in a laptop to do some work, but I can't take it with me. I can prep my hairbrush for when I get out the shower, but I can't take it with me. You do not --you cannot!-- appreciate the profoundly simple significance of being able to hold something in your hand while walking, until you are forced to walk on crutches. The inability to transport anything whatsoever may well be the biggest daily obstacle I have to deal with. I have had to learn to stuff my phone in my sock if I'm wearing pajamas, because there is literally no other way I can take it with me. There are millions of everyday activities that keep life rolling along with zero requirement other than the ability to move while clasping something with your hands. And I can do precisely none of them.
I miss my privacy, and the comforting knowledge that there's a locked door between me and the rest of the world. I miss having a domain wherein no distraction can enter without my leave. I miss bearing my heart to others in moments that are, should be, and can only be, intimately personal. I miss those long afternoons where it can just be me, my project, and nothing else. I miss trying things outside my comfort zone and not being scrutinized in the process. I miss being able to swear without getting dark glances across the room. I miss exploring my own body, and experimenting with new sensations. I miss setting aside an evening after a long day's work to indulge in several hours of good old-fashioned carnal pleasure.
I miss it all, really.
Just because you're on the road to recovery doesn't mean that road can't a pothole-riddled craggy piece of shit that shreds your tires and fucks up your suspension.
This ramble and your soul belong to me.
I miss the movie-nights me & my roommate would have on Sundays. Sometimes they'd be new releases in the cinema, sometimes a so-bad-it's-good classic on Netflix, sometimes a wrestling pay-per-view of yore. Any which way you'd slice it, they were --and still are-- something special. My roommate is the first friend I've had in a long time who I can actually see and visit without buying plane tickets. We clicked better than a key in a lock, and we look out for each other in ways we do for only very few other people. If either of us needed anything, anything at all, help was only a stairwell away. And on Sundays we'd make dinner, shoot the breeze, put something on, and have a great time. Only now we can't.
I miss talking to my friends and to my love well into the wee hours of the morning. Trust me, I know and appreciate the benefits of a regular sleeping schedule better than most, but that doesn't mean there aren't times when it's worth being a bit groggy the next day. Be it an impromptu session of Cards Against Humanity that goes on for 13 games, a romantic encounter where you nervously but eagerly show a certain side of yourself, or just being there for someone who's feeling rattled after a long bad day: sometimes the best thing you can do is deciding to pull an all-nighter. Throw in timezones for good measure, and the simple fact of the matter is that some of my fondest memories took place long after midnight. Yet suddenly there has been a total embargo against any more such memories.
I miss playing the piano. Practicing my old standbys, advancing longstanding projects, just plain hitting random keys and stumbling across a pleasant melody. It's something of a seasonal activity, I'll admit: months can pass without a single note being heard. But I always come back for more. Middle of the day; middle of the night; hours before a crucial deadline; the piano cares not. It doesn't necessarily require a great deal of concentration so much as it does a thorough lack of distraction (and of course, the opportunity to play without bothering others). I am a far cry from what you'd call a good pianist, but precious few amateurs would ever become lauded professionals if they didn't derive some pleasure even from those early simply days. I'm sorry to say such pleasure has been in short supply for the past few weeks.
I miss being able to shower without having to exhibit near-bombsquad levels of caution whenever I get out of the shower cabin. I can put with having to sit on a stool rather than standing up. Sure, the cabin's kinda small so I need to keep my knee bent at an angle that's more than steep enough to elicit a firm, continuous pain from my newly reconstructed joint, but I can make do. No: it's getting in and getting out that's the real kicker for me. See, normally I wouldn't worry too much, if at all, about slipping in the shower. We've all done it, we all know it sucks, but we're not afraid of it. There must be thousands of close calls over the years, but the reason those are close calls is 'cause if a foot slips out from underneath us we've still got another one to fall back on. Whereas I need to be escorted out of the shower while holding on to every firm handle and utilizing every trick in the book to make sure I don't fall.
I miss visiting the market and feasting on the cornucopia of smells drifting through the air. The earthy aroma of vegetables mingling with the salacious scent of hand-ground spices, guiding my feet one step at a time. A mere whiff of freshly caught fish --lovingly displayed on a bed of ice-- is enough to make me feel as though I'm standing on the shore looking out over the North Sea, even though mere moments ago the butchers tempted me within an inch of my life with the ambrosial magnificence that is fresh dates wrapped in crispy fried bacon. And the bakers, with their countless cakes and billions of breads and sweet sumptuous snacks that don't even have names in English, right in the very heart of it all. I appreciate the convenience of a supermarket as much as the next guy, but I will gladly walk the extra two blocks any day of the week. Except I can't anymore.
I miss grabbing leftovers from the cupboard so I can snack on something while I'm working. People think of crutches as a big impediment for one's legs, but this is not the case. Far more than that, they are an impediment for one's arms. I can fill a glass of water if I'm thirsty, but I can't take it with me. I can plug in a laptop to do some work, but I can't take it with me. I can prep my hairbrush for when I get out the shower, but I can't take it with me. You do not --you cannot!-- appreciate the profoundly simple significance of being able to hold something in your hand while walking, until you are forced to walk on crutches. The inability to transport anything whatsoever may well be the biggest daily obstacle I have to deal with. I have had to learn to stuff my phone in my sock if I'm wearing pajamas, because there is literally no other way I can take it with me. There are millions of everyday activities that keep life rolling along with zero requirement other than the ability to move while clasping something with your hands. And I can do precisely none of them.
I miss my privacy, and the comforting knowledge that there's a locked door between me and the rest of the world. I miss having a domain wherein no distraction can enter without my leave. I miss bearing my heart to others in moments that are, should be, and can only be, intimately personal. I miss those long afternoons where it can just be me, my project, and nothing else. I miss trying things outside my comfort zone and not being scrutinized in the process. I miss being able to swear without getting dark glances across the room. I miss exploring my own body, and experimenting with new sensations. I miss setting aside an evening after a long day's work to indulge in several hours of good old-fashioned carnal pleasure.
I miss it all, really.
Just because you're on the road to recovery doesn't mean that road can't a pothole-riddled craggy piece of shit that shreds your tires and fucks up your suspension.
This ramble and your soul belong to me.
Category Story / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 26.5 kB
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