So who is the one who wants me to write to them?
The one who's desperate for any scrap of news that says I'm alive and well.
Well… here comes another tornado of thinking, but STOP!!! I literally snapped myself before I got engulfed by the airy flames of that monstrous tornado of overthinking.
"Let's leave the salutation for now, shall we?" I said out loud, clapping my hands once like a teacher ending a class. Then I stood up. I started stretching.
Oofff. As I stretched my spine, well, what stretch? I simply bent a little to touch my knees, and damn, the cracking noises. Okay, I might be exaggerating, but they sounded like trying to crunch Lay's chips quietly at night, terrified the whole house will know you're snacking.
Then I bent to the right side, then to the left side. Each side rewarded me with more cracks, cracks like the joints of a seventy-year-old who's spent a lifetime working construction.
Something bubbly sat in my chest. Heavy, like a balloon stuck halfway to inflating. I tried breathing deeply. Nope. Nothing came out.
Then I thought of something. I put both hands behind my head, tried to bring my elbows together, then apart, stretching my spine backwards, pop! Another sound, right from the center of my ribs, exactly where the manubrium meets the body of the sternum, the so-called manubriosternum joint.
You must be thinking, wow, he's some medical geek, tossing out anatomy terms like confetti. No, don't take it too far. No one in my family is a doctor or even a nurse. (We're more outpatient material than healthcare providers, honestly. You've probably seen that Instagram reel: I'm a therapist, but I have more potential as a patient. That's us. Yup we nope especially me, I belong in the waiting room, not behind the stethoscopes.)
But because I'm dramatic, and also because I like knowing names for my pains, I had been Googling. And I found out something fascinating: the sternum used to be called gladius, a Roman word for sword, because of its resemblance to one, especially the xiphoid process, which comes from xiphos, the Greek word for sword.
I loved that. I found myself thinking: I have a sword in my chest. One that is mine alone. A mystical object only I can draw, with my own name etched on the blade. No one else gets the honor of wielding this sword. Just me.
And as I'm telling you this, it actually reminds me of a Korean drama. What was its name? Goblin. The Lonely and Great Guardian. Yes, that's it. It's been so long since I watched it, 2017 maybe, but I do remember there was this goblin who had a sword in his chest that could only be seen by his bride, and only his bride could pull it out.
Well… as I'm thinking of that, I'm feeling a little blushy you know. A little giddy. Don't pretend to be ignorant, you know why I'm feeling shy. I can't seem to remove the smile off my face. My bride. The only second owner of my sword.
"LEAVE ITTT! What are you doing to meeee?" I scold myself. "I said I don't like romantic genre. Don't misguide me!"
But that's exclusive, don't you think? My bride, my sword and me…
Awwwww… its cute, don't you think a runaway who cannot even think of whom to write to is thinking of his bride. Lets leave it I guess.
But when I read that (about the sword this not the bride thing), I felt good beyond words. I actually massaged my chest like I was polishing that secret sword, smoothing the hilt, tracing the blade under my skin. (Of course, this was after the "pop" had already escaped my chest, because that's when I finally sat down again, looked it up, and then kept writing.)
Ahhhhh… but that felt soooo good. If it hadn't, I probably would've convinced myself I had some sort of heart disease, because presumably, chest issues usually mean heart issues, right? Be it physical heart issues or mental heart issues.
Before I continue, let me tell you something, and after you read this you might even want to hit me. So… sorry in advance.
After all that, stretching, searching, sword-daydreaming, when I finally picked up my pen, determined to leave the salutation portion for now and just continue, I realized something.
I'd had this exact same process of thought, the same loop, a few hours ago when I left it in the first place, in my earlier blood-blotched letter.
I smacked my forehead with my palm. Snap. "Damn it, you good-for-nothing fool," I muttered. "The only thing you have right now is time and you can't even handle it, can't even manage it…"
I said it out loud. To myself.
The same thing you're probably saying to me behind your screens right now, right?
As always You can read ahead for free at (p)(a)(t)(r)(e)(o)(n). com/(a)(c)(c)(u)(s)(c)(r)(i)(p)(t)(e)(r)