Last night I had to leave the aforementioned birthday party early, a fact I regretted because the food/music/company was great and it promised to be one of the best parties of the year. But a migraine was fast approaching, and I knew if I wasn't curled up in the darkness soon, I was going to die. Or at least be the worst company this party had ever seen. In the middle of the night, as one of the worst migraines this Rona-year roared through, the pain screaming ripping tearing clenching, I remembered a quote from a short story by African writer Nadine Gordimer (which I looked up again this morning to make sure I got right): "When people commit suicide they do so apparently out of some sudden self-knowledge that those of us, the living, do not have the will to acquire. That's what's meant by despair, isn't it--what they have come to know?"
Then my ibuprofen cloud wrapped around me and I fell back into sleep. The pain I had come to know was dissipating just enough.
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