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…from all the medicine

A couple of hours ago, I put my head on the pillow, attempting to smother the flu that timidly started scratching my throat this afternoon.

I had TRULY and finally decided that tomorrow I would not go to the hospital anymore. Neither the day after tomorrow. Nor next Monday. Or ever again.

Eyes full of tears, I wrote a heartfelt message to someone I thought would understand. Someone I thought would make it all better. Someone I’m not even friends on Facebook with, so that my deeply personal confession went to a much privileged place in ZuckerbergLand, called trash. No sooner than I pressed “send” did the terrific revelation happen to strike me.

Magnificent.

And then I tried to sleep it all away, hoping to wake up and realize it was just another bad dream. That I’d get off from bed, stretch my arms, put on my slippers, have a brief shower, buy a doughnut on the way to my boring 9 to 5 job, be a robot all day long, go back home and trim the baobabs growing on my tincy-wincy joke of a planet.

That I’d be able to move to whichever planet I wished for, whenever the baobabs went nuts, leaving no room for anything or anyone else in that minute piece of universe I inhabited at the moment.

It would have been so easy and – oh – so very pleasant.

Yes. Today I had taken the seemingly unyielding resolution to quit everything. Not only medicine, but also writing – because I saw (and still see) myself as no good for either.

Yet here I am, writing in a frenzy and pondering upon what flu-friendly clothes I should wear tomorrow at the hospital.

Ana Ivanovic retired from professional tennis today. She might not have changed the story of the sport the way Serena Williams or Chris Evert have done, but her name will never be forgotten due to a bunch of other undisputable reasons. She had the guts to stop, but she left 13 years of legacy behind her. She did her part. And she did it quite darn well.

On the other hand, what did I leave behind – aside from a billion childish hopes and dreams that are destined to be gone with the first gust of wind?

Nothing.

Not. One. Thing.

Zero.

Nada.

Niente.

Rien de rien.

Ergo, I guess it seems now legit to reconsider my “unyelding decision” (yeah, right, bullshit in the rough) and try to stick around without killing anyone, fill in a damn Excel sheet, master the art of piecharts and histograms and squeeze the closest to my best in the endeavour of doing my humble part as a doctor.

I cannot deny that I shall always remain under the spell of the perspective of doing the dishes in Trinidad Tobago or picking lemons in western Australia. But something or someone wants me to do it otherwise. And who am I to disobey? I’ve done nothing so far – so, I am no one. I’ll have to work in order to gain the right to own an identity. And to be a rebel. And then to give it all up, over and over again. And to build myself up from scratch, from the ashes, from the reminder of the blaze that scorched every inch of my fiery but so pitiable and feeble spirit.

I’ll have to. I hate it, but I’ll do it. No one should retire when they haven’t even begun in the first place – unless the injuries are already too severe – but since I’ve never had an MRI, I can’t tell.

So, yeah.

Get up and fail again.

Fail better, you lazy piece of ass unaware of the potential that’s locked inside that stubborn brain of yours.

Nevertheless, if you keep on failing worse and worse, it’s not the end of the world either.

Ride the freaking wave of failure like a carefree nomad, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain in sight. Scream from the top of your lungs in your helmet and  ride it like you stole it, as Mihai Barbu used to say. And if you feel like writing, just do it, for heaven’s sake. It’s better than staring akimbo at the starless sky, wondering where this bumpy road of life will take you next. So what if you wasted six years of it? You still have a good deal of youth left in front of you. Some people waste their whole lives and deny themselves the slightest chance to actually ever live them. Beware, it’s a trap. Keep your eyes wide open and try to avoid it at all costs. Six years isn’t that big a price after all. What do you say? Does the hopelessness feel a bit lighter on you right now? I pray to God it does. After all, it’s only me and you and Him. And you are me and I am you. So, correction: it’s just the two of us. Two isn’t as lonely a number as is one. That’s one of the few things you can always take for granted, kid.

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