I came upon some interesting information in my anatomy book concerning neuroglial cells, and a lightbulb went off in my head. I essentially hypothesized a cure for MS. I was pulled out of class today by my counselor and principal and discussed school with them, in particular, how I don't feel challenged in my current environment. They want to help me however they can and are willing to get creative in terms of scheduling and the like. They even want to see about getting me involved with a research project with a nearby institution, with the goal of getting published. How amazing would that be? I would absolutely love an opportunity like that. I've always been interested in methods of restoring the nervous system, and hey, my brain hatched an idea of its own. Let's see if it has any merit.
It's now or never.
While you join the ranks of the young professionals, I shall pepper your mind with these musings. As you know in life and science, that there is a historical age, and that of our biology. While the former is constant and consistent for all, being a fixed measure of time, the other, is not. Biological age varies by individual, on circumstance and from condition. It is possible for an old man to have the body of one much younger, and a young body to be warn and gray. I was downstairs within my basement, struggling with the faucet there. I was using my hand to press the short metal handle and stop the water flow, but much to my nuisance, it was difficult to fully close. I pressed hard, I pressed harder, and the metal end would impress itself upon my flesh, causing a red a raw rubbed impression, a dull and numbing pain, as my skin, muscles and bones, compressed and suffered trauma. I looked at those lines familiar to me, the blemishes there in spots, as if telling a grand old story, carved by nature and her engraving spirit. It dawned on my how in that one instance I aged my hand for sure in some small measure. How another, with no faucet to force shut, had not harmed their precious hands, but kept them in a much preserved state of being, in a more refined sort of environment. How many times have I struggled with that faucet? How many days, months, years of wear have I incurred? What of those braced falls and tool filled hands, picking up stones and shoveling snow, over a lifetime, gradually shorting it. How evident it then becomes, why the poor and the miserable suffer more, for they spend their bodies with labors, and with trouble stress their heart and soul. Who can see the hidden dangers, of a thousand concerns within the mind, whirling like a film in speed, that may one day suddenly stop, no more able to rewind. We all have our activities, our surroundings and our habits, so we all age very differently. Through the course of our existence many become equals, while others remain far more sheltered and less worn. In the end, death takes us the same, but in our journey toward the coffin, our manner of life shall be felt upon those left behind.
ReplyDeleteI am just waiting for my biological age to catch up to me. Then people will see me as more than a number, and while I hate looking to others for approval, it is quite necessary in this world. There's not much to worry about for your hands, because just about everything in them is going to be capable of regenerating for a long while. The aging process is strange and I really don't understand it too well. One day you are young, the next, your body says, "Ok, enough, I'm done, what you have is all you're going to get, make the most of it and try not to abuse it too much." Doctors are deceivers, actors, procrastinators, just pushing death to tomorrow, telling it, "Sorry, we're closed, please come by later." What a lovely facade, a false sense of immortality.
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