tsvetoslav shalev

Dear Tsvetoslav,

I am emailing to confirm receipt of your resignation and that we will shortly begin the offboarding process.

In the meantime, if you have any questions or require further assistance, please don’t hesitate to reach out.

Kind regards,

…

The warmth of direct sunlight on my skin feels comforting, but my hands are still so very cold. With one nostril unblocked—a small, desperate victory—I inhale deeply before a coughing fit interrupts my idyll. Food and beverages have lost all their intricate detail; all I can smell is the faint whiff of liquid iron. How does one navigate such a sensory void? Is this the promise of old age? Or a life-changing illness? Neither, in my case, but rather the effects of the worst cold I’ve experienced in a while. Still, through this combination of high fever and exhaustion, for a moment, I forget how long I have been sitting on the plastic chair in the garden. The texture of time is finally revealing itself to me. But at what cost?

I was fifteen the first time I heard my lungs wheezing as they trudged along, trying to keep me alive. A teen, bedridden in the isolation ward at a local hospital, and not at all bothered by the possibility of my life ending then and there. The thought must have crossed my medicated mind on more than one occasion, but the banality of the surrounding circumstances diluted any strong emotions I might have had. I do not recall feeling powerless nor resigned; instead, I went with the flow of what my parents and doctors needed of me. Regardless of the time of day or the pain and discomfort of a medical procedure, I cooperated, uncomplaining. I wasn’t fighting for my life—I was assisting in the troubleshooting of a health problem.

Something’s changed in the decades since. Any undiagnosed health complication calls on the existentialist in me. What if this latest of pains is the emissary of unbecoming? What if the painful headache spell I’m experiencing is a tumour or a symptom of a degenerative disease? What if this is the last breath afforded me? What do I have to show for myself? I’ll make for one pathetic corpse… I’m going too far, so please, accept my apology. I want to believe that such unabashed directness is necessary. A wake-up call of sorts, you know, something to grab us by the shoulders and give us a good ol’ shake whilst shouting, ‘Memento mori, you son of a biscuit’! Instead, the resulting effect is a mere reshuffling of the game pieces left on the board, in an attempt to approach this losing game against life from a different angle. No, no Elysian fields for this here representative of the human race. Just another desperate reach towards a more meaningful existence, currently as amorphous as the gentle mist blanketing my hometown.

Neither a majour crisis nor a grand complication should have complete ownership over this very personal need to make more profound changes to what remains of our days. If being alive this long has taught me anything of value, it’s that you cannot think your way out of a situation, where action is required instead. No, I did not grow tired of experts all of a sudden, and the desire to plant my own food is as low as it has ever been. Rather, I feel like in my pursuit of a frictionless existence, I’ve ended up sliding down this nasty slippery slope. And did I mention I don’t have skis on me? Actually, I’ve never skied to begin with. So, go ahead and automate stuffs; but please, do protect some of that good friction in your life, also. That, or I’ll be waiting for you atop Mount Summvabeach. If you know, you know.🍵