eternal-song

It starts with pain. As I lie awake in bed, I can feel it. I feel the cramping of my muscles, the sting that reminds me that I worked my legs too hard. I feel the awkward stiffness of them, their rigidness skewing the sheets into a tent at my knees. I feel the unpleasant tingling, the pricking that worsens day by day as my legs die. I feel the harsh rawness of my underarms and sides, the blisters on my hands caused by my iron-tight grip on my wooden crutches – little more than two sticks. I feel the burning shame of being different, disabled, crippled. The village hates me. They shun me, ignore me except for their constantly criticizing e