Body talk

Right this minute, my body, like a king size mattress crammed into a carrier bag is hurling abuse at me from every orifice.

It is telling me I am a wastrel, a dullard, a sac of secreted pus and a dim witted old faggot, a complete and total waste of space.

My body is not what it once was. My skin, once taut and smooth now sags in great folds that follow me about.

My musculature, once honed to perfect proportion now dangles from my skeleton, limp and powerless.

My heart, once a powerful engine that drove me to great physical achievement, now stutters and hesitates, kept in reluctant rhythm by my doctors prescribed medication.

My senses, once honed to a sharpness unrivalled in human development, now flicker like a light bulb worn to its final, meagre output.

I desperately cling to the fading memory of what I once was as I slowly trudge to my inevitable demise, hoping against the odds that by some miracle I might produce writing of some merit before finally sliding into oblivion.