I’m sore again. I don’t know what I did to bring it back. It’s my back naturally. And it’s stiff as a board. Rigid. Like iron. I think of Frida Kahlo and the drawings she made of her pain. It must’ve been constant. Mine is nothing in comparison. A blip. An inconvenience. But my potential for self-pity hovers. Always. Breathe into it, she said. Relax, she said. I will try. Mind over matter.
