Several funny things, actually. Not funny ha-ha. Not even funny-strange, because it feels like this was meant to happen all along. Just another stretch of rough road as I continue the monomyth and journey through this funky new landscape, newfound peace cradled in my shaky hands.
I'm more put together, that's for sure. Stronger at the core, unwilling to let it rust and crumble. Doesn't mean I don't want to. Just means I refuse to give in to that want.
The Ron I used to know would have succumbed to his urges last night, made a few calls, found a little something-something to deepen the darkness, help me feel, help me forget.
I won't do that. I'll be damned if I'm going to give anyone the satisfaction of watching me pile it in. Anger may not be a good reason for living, but it helped me recover from May 5. Right now, I'll take it.
The writer JC Wilson also helped, though he doesn't know how much. He sent along a piece about Batman's descent into hell, and the monomyth Christopher Nolan has created. Ironic laughter is good medicine.
And the vivid dreams returned last night. This one was an amalgam of Brazil and execution and a white wedding. I woke up on the couch, my feet asleep. For a long moment I was confused — at first I thought I was somewhere else, getting ready for a car show, and I veered into giddiness. Then I thought I was paralyzed, and the post-stroke recovery had all been a nice dream: a hard right careen into despair. Reality finally settled its claws into my waking brain. The center lane of life is the safest place to be right now. At least there are no ditches.