Hellmouth

I remember crossing through the panhandle of Texas during a giant, ominous dust/windstorm this past summer, in the back of a minivan, while listening to this song by Rilo Kiley: https://youtu.be/-zTXFOUvZiw "It's 16 miles/to the promised Land" took on such significance for me, as we neared New Mexico, and i thought about the wonderful, terrifying prospect of having hope for recovering from my illness.  The New Mexico sunsets are strange, unreal, and seem to reveal new dimensions to light itself.  I don't know if New Mexico is the promised Land.  Things haven't gone as easy or as speedily as I once hoped they would.  But the experiment of going to pristine wilderness areas in the West to see what effect it has on my symptoms as a whole has yielded lots of usable data, and tantalizing possibilities for future improvement. I've had so much pain, and probably have so much more to deal with even with treatments that could possibly yield full remission, to

Given how sick I am currently,  keeping up with a blog is an absurdly optimistic notion.  I cant even keep up with really basic tasks of survival and life.  And a diary is even too much work, let alone a public one.  It seems like the best use of my extremely limited energy would be to conserve it, to try and unify it into a singular force of will to figure out an escape from this hell.  But since severe ME/CFS  is basically invisible for the exact reasons I list, part of me wants to document things, and expose them to an audience that rarely sees them... such as the audience that used to read my old blog posts on literature and critical theory bs... So maybe I'll keep this up as a form of public diary,  and a form of documenting a journey through hell.   Let's just hope that the way out is actually through and this isn't all for nothing.