mmdxlviii

A Cavalcade of Paroxysms

Wending therapy session because I
talk entirely too much (clearly) vs.

not remembering optimistic follow-up.
Nor being in Cleveland. (At all!) But

remembering instead not even being
diagnosed (with Tourette’s Syndrome,

“...usually diagnosed in childhood or
adolescence.”). Which is still not

remembering. But it makes me
everybody’s favorite type of

hypochondriac: the guy who
makes fun of the fact that he’s

a hypochondriac. “Favorite”
is relative, however, and “fun”

isn’t the problem, unfortunately.
Because I’m a fun-loving guy

in whose...presents...is a joy
to be around. Do I strive for this?

Is this just it? Or is it just me?
(Or

is it I?)
                                     Well,

I used to be a hypochondriac. Which 

was not a favorite characteristic, surely.

But it was something to bring up when 

conversations hit dead silence (not by me, 

of course, but in general—or by the General, if 

he were in attendance, as if it were. He’d always 

frighten the soldier-children as if on cue. And 

whether the horror was cue or cure for the erst

while death and silence, or even for the eye-rolling,

nobody seemed the worse for it, that’s for certain...).

Perhaps that’s why I’m more summed up an idealist:
an all-the-way-back-until-it’s-just-the-whites-of-the-

eyes romantic [cough, cough!].... Will it is or
will it ain’t, I grin, realizing again that thoughts

about myself often bring me to subjects such as 

Hope and The Wondrous Beauty of Silence.