Diary entry Feb 23, 2015 : Having a bad infection on my hand

They said ‘turn your wounds into wisdom’. Then they left me to do it. Thinking events have pushed me to the wall and left me screaming with my heart. Nope. I ain’t that deep. Looks like a normal delivery. Let’s do this.

My grandma would say it’s the devil on my right palm. So infected it is with bacteria after I tried to gorge that ‘devil’ out to his entrails.

The doc. looked at me, eyes screaming “you’ll going to die” and heart beating to the tunes of the cents in my pocket. I tell him, “I just want a 100bob tetanus jab!” Yeah. That’s how cheap i am. Who needs prescribed antibiotics when you have honey and garlic in the backpack? Aha. That’s even the wrong place. Weird confessions. But who cares? Not me. Nor my 2000 baab.

What now? Source of wound? I don’t tell. I don’t give p’ple stories to escort their munchies and blurter out by their fireplaces at night. Yet it’s ugly. Not crucifixion-ugly though. Even so, I’m waiting on the scar. I’d like to see if it’d fool the Jews again. “I am He.” Obviously never. Oh, and the evidence ain’t halfway enough. The other palm’s as soft as baby’s bottoms, of course, before the world gives it its first mouthfuls and it learns how to let out ‘excuses’.

But worst of all, this sounds like a broken delivery. A stale half-burnt sacrifice. A failed piece. So let’s bury this thing right here and forget. The next one will come out alive! And the scar? A testimony.



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