Maybe five more years, where I can still get around, then sets in more of the Parkinson's. After ten I'll be kicking, but not much more. Which makes me wanna do something tremendous, a swan song farewell. A cool step over the line. You know... something special.
Thus the rub. Fate's snub of my aspirations for the grandiose.
Mostly my time is wasted in maintenance. Doctor visits, gimping about, medication dosed out... a string of kind indignations, as the world of well-meaning good-intentions swallow me in a complacency. Endlessly shifting position, easing discomfort... Swirling in a world of friendly smiles, from well trained caregivers.
PD propaganda propagates a perpetual state of hope. Hope of a cure and hope as the cure. It is a tedious drone of optimism for people who live on the darker side of Parkinson. For those of us, who linger in our beds, in a wounded drool of depression. We get the message, acknowledge appreciation, yet we do not digest these happy pills of optimism. We know well how we feel.
I am teaching a swan to sing, as slippery time slimes past, in a maddening rush to an ugly ending. A tune of holy righteousness must come, from a quivering beak of indecision. I must find my voice even while it fades into an inevitable silence.
Hope is a rope to skip when young. Hope for we old is to build a bridge, beyond our predictions of sad demise into a living hilarity of on-going orgasm... to say 'Goodbye' as a triumphant 'Sayonara'. A kimono-clad hero waltzing off into the sunset.
To manifest a masterful final dance with my femme fatale, the Goddess of Happy Endings, is quest worthy of death. Wish me good riddance and my own happy forever-after ending. Help me to say goodbye wisely... artfully, with a hint of mint.