Someone Would Carry Your Ashes.

Over the last couple of years, more than one of my friends have been seriously fucked over. By their own bodies. And that’s really fucking unfair, because these people didn’t do anything to deserve this.

Three years ago, I watched the kindest, proudest, most intelligent man I have ever known, or can ever hope to know, lose his dignity and reason to the rebellion of his cells. Had the consequences been known when he first lit up back in the forties, I doubt this man of reason and dignity would have been so foolish.

The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that we’re actually lucky if our bodies don’t betray us. We’re lucky to have functioning immune, nervous and respiratory systems. We’re lucky to have cells that produce at exactly the rate they are supposed to.

So, I don’t understand why anyone would antagonise their body. It is a moody friend, unforgiving, and untrustworthy.

I’m no saint. I drink. I have, once or twice, under the influence of a party vibe and a glass or two, sat outside with the smokers and kissed the night with those beautiful little rings of smoke. I drink far too much coffee, and far too little water. I certainly don’t get my five serves a day. I disgust myself with my own disregard for my health every time I wake up with a hangover, and I always vow never to do it again.

And I always do it again.

I carry some ashes with me in a capsule on a necklace. Maybe that’s a bit creepy. But I never kiss the night anymore. And that might be the only thing I’m willing to give up, something I never really did in the first place, and maybe that makes me a hypocrite…

So… I don’t know what I’m asking, or asserting, and this post is way out of place on this usually outrageously self-righteous and self-indulgent blog, but that’s the mood.

Take care of yourselves.

Someone loves you and would carry your ashes.