My father was telling me about when he had surgery for the removal of his tonsils. I imagined what he looked like at a young age, and I assume it was a proto-face of what mine is today.
He told me they gave him the gas mask.
What this reminded me of is when Billy Pilgrim, in Slaughterhouse Five, would wake up in different times and places. How he was once a child and soon a man in the blink of an eye. He would know when he would die, and he would know when.
I was telling a friend of mine that since we were friends before now, we're friends for existence.
I wonder if one day, I'll go unconscious due to some brain trauma, and I'll be seven again.
Maybe I'll be seventeen again, and the trauma will happen when I'm middle aged.
What I'm wondering right now is: What happens next?
Certain close friends are leaving, others are changing, and I'm meeting new people.
It's like my life has reached some sort of a horrible sequel.
What I can't seem to understand is why can't I just end it here, write up a script, sell it as a movie, and live forever in film? Why can't I just settle now and lay back until our we all die our inevitable deaths? That's something we can all enjoy.
One of these days I'm sure I'll be in a delirious state, likely related to a variation of manic depression, and I'll think everything was beautiful and nothing hurt.
All the mountains we climb crumble into sands of time
No mail to send, to fair-weathered friend
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