I've realized that of late, I can only think of things in terms of a decade from now. Until then, I cannot be free. I can't live my life. I can't even think to make plans for myself. My every move is dictated by a draconian and punitive law that doesn't even afford me the basic rights allowed to a common criminal. I live in a box, and all my energy and all my efforts have to be devoted to two things: 1) surviving 10 years in a box, and 2) making sure that the bastards holding me here don't crush me through sheer incompetence.
Had a long conversation with my special friend about the Buddhist concept of "soul death," and how I think it applies to me. That's me, your friend the zombie.
Also talked some about being sore after having spent Sunday on my feet. On the one hand, I thought it was kind of pathetic that I felt like my whole body had been put through a vigorous workout while all I had done was walk around a room talking to people. There was another feeling there, though, something I didn't quite fathom until I came across a passage in Chung Kuo about one of the fighters. Right. I have this memory of having every muscle taught and ready to spring into action. I remember what that felt like, and every once in a while when I'm reminded that I have physical flesh, it comes to me. I miss it, and the longing for that feeling, that power, is more than a little overwhelming. Feel like I can't ever have that again.
Wasted time, wasted energy, wasted effort. Granted, it wasn't like my life was on the fast track before the troubles began, but at least I had a sense of the potential. Ideas, dreams, wishes... none of them have any relevance now. All this so someone else's dishonesty and irresponsibility get rewarded.
Want to know pain? Have the self-righteous point at you and tell you that your life quite literally begins at 50.