You start the climb not from a level place,
But from a deep and energy-drained space.
The spoons are spent before the day’s begun,
A battle lost before it’s even won.
It’s not just tired, it’s a heavy cloak,
A fire’s heat, a suffocating smoke.
A cytokine-fed fog that drains the head,
And glues the weary body to the bed.
Add to the fog the paralyzing shame,
The secret wounds, the odor, and the blame.
The self-worth needed for the climb is gone,
Crushed by the fear of every coming dawn.
You’ve tried the pills, the creams, the futile quest,
You’ve put your fragile, burning hope to test.
But hope was crushed, by flare and failed reply,
You’ve learned, in truth, it’s easier not to try.
Then in that state, you reach the clinic’s door,
Desperate for a fix, and nothing more.
The doctor smiles, his fifteen minutes tick,
He offers you the easy, magic trick.
This drug will work, it’s new and strong, he’ll say,
A simple fix to get you through the day.
It’s objective science, logical and neat,
A trial-backed, empiric, fast retreat.
The choice reflects a classic, old design:
Cartesian thought that draws a heavy line.
Your self is here, your body over there,
A broken engine, needing fast repair.
The sickness is a bug, an “other,” foe,
A foreign invader that must simply go.
You take the pill, a passive, hopeful trade,
A simple transaction, debt and payment made.
But then you scroll, and find a different plea,
The wellness path, the n=1 decree.
A world of anecdote, a whisper, Try…
I healed myself, and here’s the reason why.
This hard path asks for intellectual nerve,
To be the scientist, to watch, observe.
To test the variables, to trust the soft
Subjective proof, so often scorned and scoffed.
This path dissolves the line the drug had drawn,
It waits for Monism’s brighter, clearer dawn.
It says your self and body are the same,
The skin, the gut, the lifestyle, and the flame.
The flare is not an enemy to fight,
It is a messenger that brings a light.
A signal from a system deep in stress,
A broken whole that you must learn to bless.
This is the bridge to sacred, older lore,
That sees the body as a temple floor.
The easy path just patches up the roof,
The hard path demands you clean the whole, aloof.
It asks you scrub the foundation, stone by stone,
A daily ritual, fought and won alone.
This isn’t sickness as a punishment,
But as a test of where your spirit’s bent.
It is the Call to leave your world behind,
A new adventure for the soul and mind.
The easy path? Refusal of the Call,
A wish to stay, and risk the coming fall.
The hard path is the Crossing of the Gap,
To shed your old self, fall into the step
Of transformation, where the fire’s heat
Becomes the catalyst that makes you fleet.
So see the choice, in all its truth displayed,
The path of patches, or the one remade.
One is a trade, to keep the life you’ve known,
The other, change, to build a brand new throne.
One lets you be the patient, waiting, passive, blind,
The other makes you Hero, strong, aligned.
The easy mutes the alarm, but feeds the pyre,
The hard path asks you put out the goddamn fire.