Some men would despair to be in my place.
I am immobile; this would seem an irreparable blow to what I have always perceived as the defining characteristics of manhood: taking risks, conquering new territory, marching forward with confidence toward a future of assured promise and prosperity. However, this injury to my legs has become the final blow. Over the years, my once sturdy frame has been weakened by chronic illness. My sad body is on the threshold of atrophy. The couch is my new and reluctant home.
My body is, surely, careering in a downward spiral; yet, conversely, my spirit has (this is the paradox) come alive with hope and good cheer. No longer am I able to walk freely on the country lanes, dappled with shimmering light that filters through the coined leaves of susurrating poplars. Nor, can I gambol with carefree abandon upon the sylvan glens of my family's estate, like the youth I once was.
My useless limbs and declining state of health no longer cause me to hate life and what I have become physically. What I realize, through the simple gift of a former student, is that I now have the means, as well as a reason, to record my former comings and goings, my present musings and humanity, while I put pen to paper.
I have found freedom in the bottom of an inkwell.