I share stories from my life and the women I've met along the way.
I also explore themes of self-awareness, mental health, and my journey after a brain tumor, reflecting on the challenges I face every day.
Latest stories
I can walk away from the screen and look from a distance. You back there, facing a red wall. While I wait for you to finish. And I keep telling myself that everything is fine. Quick time before a long wait. Time that burns before a long emptiness. I brush against your image. I resist the temptation to write to you. I keep you suspended. An image of you in my mind. Your madness poorly hidden. At least to my eyes. Behind the need for certainty, the desire to get lost. Still in your room.
It has been three years since I met her, and I can't say how much I know. I wish I could say otherwise, but I haven't yet found a way to get as close as I would like. Sometimes I feel like I'm where I want to be, but I realize I'm still not close enough. That I'm still far away.
So I trust my feelings and I imagine what might be there. I remain seated outside, waiting for the doors to open.
The average age of people around me in this waiting room is about ninety six years. We are here for the same reason. Just a shot of the vaccine.
We are all at-risk guys. But they had to wait fifty years more than me. I’m here. I didn’t have to wait like you. I didn’t have to wait ninety years to be at-risk. You had to, guys!
I have another follow-up exam tomorrow. Every four to six months, I have one. I'm not scared. Or rather, I am. I'm claustrophobic, and I'm terrified of the MRI tube. I'm more afraid of the MRI tube than I am of the idea of still having the tumor. Tumors don't require claustrophobic tubes. They require cortisone instead.
Like when I'm with the fathers I have to stay with. Dinner table. Mothers and fathers. I'm on the wrong side of the table. I always feel like I'm on the wrong side of the table.
But I repeat myself: I’m a man. My body tells me I’m a man. Maybe. Sometimes. I don’t know.
So… what is a man?
In the darkness, I drive fast on old mountain roads. The forest around us fades behind rusty guardrails. The last towns are far behind us, just small lights like stars above our heads.
Silence fills the night with its noise, mixed with the sound of a cicada that hasn’t noticed the evening passing. The air outside the window is cool and lightly brushes between my fingers.