I’m all alone.
Day – night seem the same. I’m always engulfed by a sharp, white light.
I still haven’t warmed up to this hospital bed.
Home is a distant memory. One I dream about with my eyes open and closed. It seems cheerier than I knew it to be. Maybe time has blurred the sadness. Perhaps my present is bleaker.
I’ve not breathed on my own in days. It could be weeks before I can. Or I just might not survive this. Hence, no breathing required.
The nurses, their kind faces, drift in and out like a haze. They check my vitals, note down readings, ensure the tubes are in place. A needly prick here and there, reassuring pats, supportive words.
It could be my imagination, but it often feels like I’m not here.
The doctors come and go, adjusting and readjusting my medicines. Their latex fingers upon my face, shining light into my eyes. Don’t they know I’m already enlightened?
Sickness is the greatest revealer. It pierces the heart and mind, eliminating all sorts of misconceptions and bias. What remains is raw and tender, a painful reminder of life’s delicate nature.
They often whisper. Don’t they know I can hear them? No family, no friends, no sympathetic visitor.
I want to laugh. But this tube in my mouth makes it difficult.
Friendship and love are frivolous, often destroyed by abundant greed and jealousy. A loyal enemy is a much more prized entity.
My bed sores are my real companions. They speak to me. I listen to their muddled words. We argue and fight, but always make up. They express my reality. I forgive the hurt they give me.
The sound of life is so lifeless. So monotonous.
But then there’s nothing exciting about being in a coma.
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