I lie in bed. Totally overcome by a persistent flu, and the
helpless feeling that comes with a blocked nose is in a word 'unbearable'.
I'm not one to complain. I'm one to dream. For it is dreams that give me
comfort when I'm bombarded by life's chores, life's cycle of struggle. It is
dreams that tell me, reassure me that there is a greater purpose to all this.
It is a dream that grabs my arm and whisks me away into a fantastical,
flamboyant world of freedom. Where the sun is always shining and the grass is
ever green. Where the flowers always flourish and the rivers run blue and
clean.
I dream now, of myself as a bird. Small but swift, singing
merrily as I embrace the skies, taking it all in. The rush of air between my
feathers. The freedom and unbounded possibility. I can spin and glide and whish
as I please. And my very soul smiles. For I am free. Free to chase after the
setting sun. Free to sing and dance and be!
Me.
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I lie in bed. An untidy bed. In an untidy room. All of which
mirrors the inner turmoil that has swept through my mind. Utterly devastating
the landscapes of my conscience. Of my being. My inner peace. If the flu is an
agent of discourse, the all-consuming avalanche of procrastinated work is a
ship-turner. And so, the non-primitive workings of my brain ask, "So why
are you lying in bed?"
And I have no answer.
Only the plethora of excuses I have been so keen to devise.
The room has now assumed a grey tint, signaling dusk and the
loss of another day to say, “I’m finally done with work!"
And for the umpteenth time I wonder, and doubt as to the
existence of such a moment.
I clear my throat and rub my eyes. My face flashed, as
though from a steam room.
Sigh. They say silence is therapeutic, balancing; but at
times like this it is nothing short of the contrary. It is mocking, unsettling,
and every tick of the alarm clock beside me is another piece of me, scraped
away by the cold unforgiving silence.
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