Dancing On My Own

Intense pain is isolating and profoundly difficult to bear. Last night was atrociously awful. Daggers, rather than simply stabbing me, in one of the territories that is at war, began a combined operation. My neurones realised that they had the power to affect multiple regions, and delighted in their newfound ability. Despite my parent’s outstanding ventures to relieve my agitation, including continual shifting of positions and attempting to freeze the vexatious nerves, my nervous system advanced in its relentless attack. The war was won, in the early hours of the morning, when we authorized the final ammunition, a large dose of a wonderful substance called morphine, which reinforced my frontline defenses, two practically invisible morphine patches, and finally sleep prevailed.

The Guardian’s song of 2010 is Robyn’s Dancing On My Own. This song, as well as the superficial story regarding a boy not noticing Robyn, refers to that heart wrenching feeling, of despite standing submerged in a large crowd, being completely alone. At present, even when I surround myself with people, I feel removed. Although friends and family are crucial in mentally encouraging me to remain strong and to continue to fight, at the end of the day, they are the home front and I am dancing on my own. Until today I would have described my dance as vicious and aggressive. It was the type of so-called “dance” that caused my brother to be punched in the nose in a mosh pit, a completely out of control, but exceedingly determined dance. Today, my chi is somewhat diminished. My dance is that of the embarrassed twelve year old boy at their first disco, a forced and unwilling shuffle. I am now unsure of how much longer I can continue this solo waltz.