OK, now it is 2 weeks.
I do what I have to do, I say what I have to say, I go where I have to go. If I am distracted I can even laugh or say a joke, even if a sting of anguish follows immediately.
It is like a patient boxeur, not striving for the KO, but working on the body to cut off the breath. This is a long distance runner, a vicious enemy.
The feeling of death is overwhelming. I feel as if I am to be executed at the end of the week. So everything seems futile and unimportant, even to feel better! Healing means nothing. Growing means aging.

Definitely not a pleasant situation, so to speak.

I don't use to write poetries, so I'll keep it short:

Here we are, sparks of being,
on the verge of a gaping void.
Will a glimpse of the Absolute
ever relieve my soul?

(not in a religious sense)