Thirtyist: 2. My Iron Lungs


Asthma. Six letters. Two syllables. One constant in a life perpetually in flux.

The frailty of the human existence, the whole of human suffering, can be boiled down to its essence when your ability to inhale, to exhale, has been compromised. To sit there, gasping for oxygen the way a celebutante seeks attention, the way the impoverished lay defeated after scouring their surroundings for nourishment. Without oxygen, there is no life. And with very little oxygen, a life can amount to very little. Continue reading