Back then you were Happy, thankful, content A year later Broken, wailing and spent A month later Hopeful, nervous and sad A week later It's the worst that you've ever had A day later You're healing and turning to friends An hour later Treading barefoot in the sand A minute later 't was never so easy to love A second later Your heart's being taken apart... What will happen,
Being ill is, above all a sensual thing. Being reminded of your own mortality, like never before, of the reflexes that died in my womb. It was a dreadful lesson that I've learnt. I tended to my body like a lover, promising in blind faith that all will be well.
Such luxurious peace— It was very much like getting possessed, you know Becoming painfully aware of nothing but yourself crooked in a crouch is the only way to stand, for it is too laborious even to stand straight. And the noise, the constant thumping of the heart. pulsations bleeching too much, too loud.
What do I know of health before this? Now it begs my attention like a serpent's hiss. Dissolving all but sense and solitude, gripping me into the lore of pure consciousness. Like a true predator, languishing over yet another sleepless night.
They are mostly elderly, frail, ghostly pale, lying there in their beds, comatose. Drugged out of their heads on painkilling meds, rarely with their mouths closed, though many with their teeth close. Tubes in their nose or oxygen masks for those for whom breathing has become too much of a task, I suppose. Totally oblivious to all those of us who have chosen to visit, just to be close. Lost in a world of their own, fighting battles unknown to most of us.