When my tooth hurts, I’m vaguely compelled to pull every tooth from my mouth. An act of relief and prevention.
Pain reminds me that I am aging. I have no problem with aging, but I do have a grievance to reconcile with pain. It’s such a subjective thing. How is another to know that I have contrived some physical ailment by way of injury or emotion? A belittling, this way and that.
What if I went to prepare a place for you?
I leave sticky notes around my my room. An abundance of yellow slips, saying: “you’re okay.” The truth within or without is nearly inconsequential. It is a platitude to prod forth longevity.