varying degrees of light

To: His highness, King Mohammed VI, of Morocco.
Re: The blogger in Morocco who will be in jail for two years for raising thoughts and questions on the King's policies.
Message: "[Your] charitable habits [are] encouraging a culture of dependency."

the story

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In high school, the indications were chronic nosebleeds and an eye twitch. The left one. And when you're young enough, which is most of us, you feel angry at your body for losing, for tapping out from - damn! - high school and a job at Subway. What in the world? We should take care of ourselves, of our bodies. I know that, but I know I'm not the only angry one.
She plays soccer, and basketball. Strong. Worn leather. And a big heart of laughter and honesty. But she's falling apart physically. She has been for years now, but she still makes the team and the rigorous daily practices and I picture it like she's running towards the enemy side, screaming at the top of her lungs, and stones, spears, bullets flying at her, tearing her apart, but she trounces along. She always makes it through and destroys them, the bastards. And though I know her by her laughter, I can't imagine how angry she gets.
I noticed just a minute ago that a small tendon in my right elbow tightens at moments like these. Half past one in the morning, the looming, ominous hum of an empty computer lab, the cold, sterile feel that you only get now, deep inside in your lungs and, as Frost wrote, miles to go before I sleep.
I'd like to tell my tightening elbow, my ever bouncing legs and every person I haven't been a friend to today that I have protest. What a big day! There has never been a day as enormous as this one! The only day that comes close to this day, the only possible runner-up, as been yesterday. It was Tuesday! How can this be? I remember waking up just a few minutes ago, rubbing my eyes and cracking my back, thinking of Advanced Expository Writing. The essays that were crafted and beginning to remember what I remember of them. And now it is sixteen hours later, in an instant.
They've hinted that, as an adult, your friends become some people you used to know and you work with your friends. The people in your world are married to you, have sprung from your loins, have paid your way into maturity or work in the cubicle next to you. And while I vow to never have such a job, such an existence (not that I could get/hold one anyway) I fear my tightened fingers slipping away from yours, you who are not in my classes
or sleeping in the bunk above mine
or rotating the supper duties from day to day
or have class, conveniently, next to mine so it is inevitable that I see you.
And I miss you because we were, at one undefined time and place in our lives, such great friends. We were pals. And I remember being so thrilled when I could see that you, you too, were excited to see me!
It doesn't always move as consciously as this, but it often moves as naturally as this or perhaps even more so. My legs will bounce and my eyes will ache tomorrow. Blood will spill away and be gone from me, but the God has been gracious enough to provide more. And if he takes it away on the next day, then he takes it away on the next day. Thank you. Thank you, for the exhaustion in the meantime. But God, while I'm here, help me to cause my elbow to tighten for the goodness, and benefit, of friends with large hearts of laughter,
for those in my ever closing and shifting world,
and specially for those, for you, the somebody I used to know.