Holding out hope.

My body feels so heavy. It weighs down the mattress, on the left side. Opening eyes very slowly, to a dim light barely coming through the shuttered window in front of me. I do not move far. I roll over a few times, squished between electronics I left around me the night before. Screens that I can hardly read, vaguely  bright, displaying numbers, dates, times, location. I feel weighted down in this spot, magnetically attached to the bed, to the floor. I am horizontal, constantly pressed down into the sheets, being forced toward the Earth. Gravity is stronger in this room.

Other people’s needs weigh down the air around my brain, seeping into my skull. My mind is swollen, bursting, trying to break past its container, to enter some other reality. I take pills. The sensation of inflammation is reduced, but not the true causes. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been living with an over active brain for so long I wonder how I will continue. Inside my head feels hot, burning, down to the nape of my neck. The base of my brain. The center of animal function. Breathe. Pump blood. Breathe. Pump blood.

My body is programmed to maintain life, but the sun compels me to stand. I cannot figure out if the forces that inspire me to exist are located internally or externally. Bodies live and bodies are tangible. Human consciousness is “alive” but it is elusive, unexplainable, and cannot be touched. I am not convinced I am more than this body, and yet I would like to be.

I would like to know about before my birth and after my death. I would like to see the future. I would like to know that the people I love who have died were certain and cognizant of my love for them. I would like to transcend dimensions, space, and time. It may be lonely and anxiety producing, but the silence of the universe, in my imagination, is profound and comforting. I would like to be relieved of the weight of all human consciousness; the billions and billions of minds that existed and died and now permeate the Earth’s atmosphere.

I must position the pillows correctly as to not hurt my neck. I must take the pills. I must walk and ponder the shape and angle of the cobblestones. I must consider the history and origin of each object that is present. I must consider the emotions of others and their fears. I must acknowledge myself. I must feel the grass with my hands. I must listen. I must remember more. I must accept life. I must, despite the enormous impossibility of this task, accept death.




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