My bones were dying inside of me. No one knew why.

My heart was dying inside of me. No one why. My ability to fly from the roof was only eclipsed by broken bones as brittle as a stick. I take 30 medications a day. Surgeries to replace the bones. Not much helps. Why does acceptance have to be radical. I stumble through my house and fall two or three times a day. I fall down the stairs a lot. I can be laid out on the floor not unlike a penguin who wants to fly off to another land. But no. I am on my back on the floor writing this on my phone, and the ceiling art I painted up there comes alive. It moves. It’s moving now. The only dialogue I have had with pain is through the opiates that will twist you around like a fetish for the wind. This piece misses the fact that life can drown you with assault. If I were to write on this comment platform anything that articulates life is a choice. I get kicked into streets of silence one more time. Poverty is no choice. It is uncivil to write that life itself is a choice. Because that would translate to death is a choice as well, which it is, but it is forbidden to write that. If I were to pick up that theme, the ideology behind it gives the world weary a permission that the dead do not need, but the living have to smile and play “Happy Days Are Here Again.” It is a lie. Radical acceptance has a numbered list or lists. I can’t remember which number goes with what list. I am reaching with my cane to push my bottles of opiates on the floor.