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High diving shrapnel

April 5, 2016
I know it sounds odd, but I’m pounding my gloves to get the chemo and get some swings into cancer. I have no idea how this chemo is going to affect me. I’m standing on a high-dive, looking at its sloshing solution. I don’t know how deep it is, or if its a shallow puddle designed the make me hit bottom. I’ve been told I won;t lose my hair, okay. WHat kind of fatigue. How soon will I lose my sense of taste? And when I emerge, how long will its saturated effects linger? I don;t fear these things. I’m simply checking the terrain so I can occupy the high ground. It’s not negative to look for snipers when you running out into the most vulnerable area in life: an open filed running play without blockers.
 
Still, I see that curly fry of a tumor. Ank of how it will squirm in agony too, and I’m willing to go through the ordeal and the battle to feel its pain, and take it, and walk on,
 
And so in the tweaked land of the mixed metaphor of a high dive and open field running, I bounced on the board, shoot in the air, and convert myself into a weapon.
 
I shout, “Cannonball!”

 

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