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  • Lyme has caused in me an evolution in my relationship to death,
    namely, to my own death. At first, I was unnaturally concerned with my
    own impending death, considering I was very young, only in my early
    20s. I knew something was very wrong and it seemed an early,
    inexplicable death was not out of the realm of possibility, and this
    incurred in me a feeling of terror. Eventually, after many years,
    during which I struggled intensely to survive, and experienced ongoing
    bouts of interminable pain, my attitude toward my own death became
    cavalier. “If it is, then it must be, and so be it,” that sort of
    thought. Now, having been stripped of almost all earthly freedoms,
    having been reduced to very little more than my mind, and made to
    endure soul crushing agony for which there is no recourse, my attitude
    toward death has become one of quiet longing. I say quiet because it
    in no way manifests as a desire to take my own life, rather, it is a
    yearning for rest, for the peace I know will eventually come to me as
    it naturally comes to all.

    Yesterday, my nose began its faucet impersonation, where a torrent of
    very thin, liquid is released in an unending onslaught of viscous
    drainage down my face, and can be indicative of a problem with
    cerebrospinal fluid, in that what was streaming uncontrollably from my
    nose could have been cerebrospinal fluid. The thought that maybe I was
    in danger lackadaisically puttered its way through my mind, but
    ultimately failed to make any significant purchase of my own concern.
    I lay here in my bed, eyes watering from extreme sinus pain, tissues
    stuffed up both nostrils, and thought to myself, “Is it time? Are you
    going to give out now, dear body?” And the thought did not feel
    terrifying. It felt only sweet.

    This is how tired I am.
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