White bedding

I had my first surgery ever 3 days ago. I had never been admitted to hospital before, never been cut up or sliced open, never been injected with strange liquids and probed with utensils I wasn’t conscious to inspect or approve. 3 days ago, my safe space was broken into, but my armor found itself strengthened; I survived.

I didn’t have major surgery, my condition wasn’t life-threatening, but I had no choice but to take the leap: say yes to the scalpel and no to this malevolent parasite eating me up from the inside. I admit, I cried a bit, I couldn’t help some lonely tears from trickling down my cheeks as the anesthetics took over my body and shut down all will power I had. I knew that I’d wake up a few hours later weaker, different…brand new maybe? Alas, I didn’t feel all shiny and fresh as I emerged from my foggy state; I felt tired, confused, old and most importantly…stuck. I wasn’t allowed to move, to eat, or do anything natural to my wellbeing. I was instead haunted by needles and nurses with charts, neon lights and an overdose of white. The aftermath. Long hours staring into space, falling asleep and waking in a start, pain everywhere, with nothing familiar to cling to.

I didn’t tell many people about this journey I had been forced to embark on, just a few friends and of course my parents. Visitors flooded the floor with armfuls of flowers and chocolate boxes, balloons and get well soons, and I watched them through my heavy eyelids as they entered other rooms, hugged other patients, kept them company while I composed yet another poem on how white everything was in this antiseptic world. I didn’t crave the applause, the screams and the crowds, I didn’t need all the attention or joyful pity, I simply wanted the nightmare to be over, to be home in bed or in a prairie skipping rope, to be anywhere but in this helpless state at the mercy of unknown arms.

I have often dreamt up situations where the love around me would be put to the test, where those who enjoyed my laughs would do anything to wipe away my tears. I somehow forgot to imagine my own hand holding the tissues, pulling me up saying: this is your test, stop waiting for the world to take it for you.

Bile smile

There are billions of souls walking the Earth today; billions smiling, laughing, living. Well I’ve got a sectet for you: it’s all make-believe.

Maybe nobody thought of it, maybe no one wanted to, but if someone created some sort of thermometer that measured how much of us is truly alive, the percentage would astound us. They say our heartbeat determines if we’re still here, enjoying each day as we breathe in life’s elixir, but my biology teachers would’ve probably failed psychology class. We walk, footsteps and pulse in synch, breathing automatically, slowly dying inside, minute after minute, skipping seconds, waiting for it all to end and relieve us. We paint smiles on our faces every morning, fooling the neighbours and our mirrors, lying to get through another day of pretending to be alive and well, a mask for our loved ones, a mask for ourselves. I woke up to this world crying, and I haven’t stopped since. I detest the idea of a place where money, scheming, cheating, killing – and any other horrid concept humans have sickened their souls with – come before love, integrity or self-fulfillment. I abhor watching initially good people slowly become rotten because they found no other way to get through the day. I hate that I cannot hate but only wallow and sigh as rain pours down from a fake sunny sky, and that I am doomed to watch everything happen helpless. I don’t like it here, I never have; I’ve been smiling and laughing and singing life’s beauty while all I’ve seen in my wake and in my dreams, is its putrefaction; the empty satisfaction one gets from a useless career, the shallow joy caused by vacant conversations… there is no depth in our lives, no truth in our lies, no real reason for our smiles; they just got stuck on our faces after patiently, repetitively, hypocritically painting them on one time too many.

You could say this is the most obscure post I’ve ever published, it may even seem too grim compared to the rest, but our hearts sometimes beat more slowly, wishing they didn’t beat at all, and our souls grow much too old to hope for eternity. Let us cry tonight, for tomorrow we smile again.