England. November 2012. The kind of day where the sky pisses misery and the clouds look like they’re having an existential crisis. Because of course it is. Because England.
I’m feeling fine. Absolutely fine. This is important because spoiler alert…
I was absolutely not fine. My body was basically running a silent self-destruct sequence while my brain was all “THIS IS FINE” like that meme with the dog in the burning house.
So I waltz into work, right?
Coffee in hand, ready to corporate the shit out of my day.
And everyone.
EVERYONE
Looks at me like I’m wearing a banana costume.
Turns out, I basically was.
My skin had gone full-on YELLOW.
Not “oh you look a bit peaked” yellow. We’re talking “holy shit you’re cosplaying as Springfield’s finest” yellow.
I still felt fine though…
(Narrator: They were not, in fact, fine.)
Next thing I know, I’m in the hospital, getting turned into a human pin cushion. They’re shoving needles in my arms like they’re trying to recreate a connect-the-dots puzzle with bruises. By the end, I looked like I’d gone twelve rounds with an angry octopus wielding ink needles.
The IV drip becomes my new best friend.
My arms look like a roadmap of bad decisions, but hey, at least I’m not doing my best impression of a banana anymore.
48 hours and approximately 47 gallons of blood samples later, the doc drops the bomb…
Epstein-Barr Virus.
Because apparently my immune system decided to take a vacation without telling the rest of me.
How did I catch it? Who knows? The universe sometimes just decides to play Russian roulette with your organs for shits and giggles.
But here’s the real mind-fuck that settled in.
There’s nothing quite like almost dying to make you realise how much of your daily stress is complete horseshit.
Nothing like a near-death experience to make you go “Huh, maybe that passive-aggressive email from Karen in accounting isn’t actually the end of the world.”
But a simple life lesson: If your co-workers at the time tell you you’re yellow, maybe don’t argue.
Maybe just… you know… Go to the hospital!
And it got me thinking…
We’re all just temporary meat-puppets piloting bone-mechs covered in flesh-armor, and our time here is shorter than a hamster’s attention span.
So what the HELL are you waiting for?
That story you’ve been sitting on? WRITE IT.
That art you’ve been dreaming of? MAKE IT.
That idea that keeps you up at 3 AM? BUILD IT.
Death doesn’t give a tap-dancing fuck about your excuses. It doesn’t care that you’re “not ready” or that “the timing isn’t right” or that “maybe next year will be better.”
Every breath is borrowed time. And you know what? That’s not scary. That’s beautiful. That’s motivation wrapped in a mortality bow.
I didn’t get yellow as a banana and nearly kick the bucket just to come back and scroll through social media until my eyes gushed blood. Neither did you survive whatever chaos tornado sucked you in and spit you out to just exist like a houseplant.
CREATE.
MAKE.
DO.
Cause we should all know that the he only thing worse than death is reaching it with our songs still unsung, our stories still untold, and our art still locked in the prison of our mind.
Stephen Walker
P.S. I’m locking myself inside of my murder shed and going to town on my writing. Deadlines need to be hit and that word count ain’t gonna write itself.
P.P.S It’s been cold here and the squirrels have lost interest.
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Stephen Walker
Unit 146317
PO Box 7169
Poole
BH15 9EL
United Kingdom