The room is calm, quaint and quiet. All lays still. Dust will settle before you rise again, everything seemingly so peaceful after such a storm. Night will move to day, winds will start to blow, the earth will move, and still you lay. Floors start to groan, and the curtains flutter with a faint breeze. The only view point is to stare forever upwards, you study the blank roof. Treating every scratch, every dirt smudge as though it was the Sistine Chapel; as though it had every depth and colour to explore, every wonder imaginable right before your tired eyes. You ignore the agony of knowing that a blank wall is all there really is to see. A feeling of warmth like sunlight on a summer morning, hot but gentle, as though the sun is not yet at full peak; spreads upwards from your toes.
Memories are a way to return, to outside, to summer, to sun, and light, and life, and growth, and all that makes the world feel so brilliantly and so absolutely golden. You use this to escape from your current place, surrounded by thoughts and the movement of time seemingly unchanged, the monotonous days, lost again in a haze. Some movement is allowed, a lolling of the head, a twitch of your toe, raising a finger, somewhat near perfect vision to gaze longingly about the room. This subtlety of movement is more freedom than most will experience in a lifetime; with every movement restricted, this little allowance, comes as a little bit of bliss.
That warmth from before seems to have spread, lapping now at your outstretched hand. Your fingertips feel these waves dance playfully, reluctant to to come any closer. More awake, a smell becomes more obvious, a smell that could only mean morning. The faint scent of black coffee, the stark chemical stench of cleaning fluid, and quiet literally squeaky clean floors; indicated by the sound of footsteps followed by a squeak of ripping rubber soles from vinyl floors. With morning, comes change, although little of it. Voices murmur discretely, shadows fall in and out of your peripheral. They usually don’t say much, if anything at all; and they never stay long. Perhaps these visitors feel sad for you, maybe they pity you, probably they don’t care for you at all. For who would care after so much time has past, you are now only a body to them, immovable, unable to communicate or to show any sign of recognition or love. Who could care for something that appears to be inanimate, a puppet with no strings, something so broken, with no ability to establish meaningful connection.
Open your eyes, you say into the silence, a thought shouted out to the void; look out, look up, try at all to show you can, try at all to show the want to get up from this torturous bed. When you were younger, a bed only housed a sleeping body, tuckered out from daily expeditions, only needed for short recuperation before another adventure began with a rising sun. Now that fresh air, the grass between your toes, the feeling of running as fast as possible, shade from trees on warm grounds, hot earth, and course sand, is all a far away wish. All the feelings and experiences seem captured in a little bottle, you’ll wander here between rough sleep and numbing consciousness. Resigned to fate, you lay in patience for any development. Maybe the next person will change everything, maybe in this next second you will rise from your spot and dance out of this hospital, down the street right to the sea. There you will stand, with toes curled into the sand, waves pushing against your shins, eyes stinging from salt, nose filled with brine, body and soul abundant with youth. There you will wander forevermore in dreams, deciding that reality is no longer worth the painful wait. Fall sleepily into dreams, living in the bliss you have bottled, leaving behind that which was not worth experiencing anymore.