Time. What is the essence of time? What is the essence of anything really? What do we live for? Why do we wake up in the morning and not the night? Why do we sleep to energize? Why can't our bodies function without sleep? Why do injuries take time to heal?
Being bed ridden had conjured up many questions that I just live with. Of course, there are answers for these questions, or there aren't depending on what or if you believe in a supernatural human being. Just like these, questions that I can't answer, I have just come to terms with them and accepted that this is just the way things are. It's how I'm coming to terms with where I am now. I remember how to talk, smell, eat and walk yet I cannot remember where I come from or how I've found myself in this predicament. Just thinking about the situation I'm in is frustrating. Not having an answer as to why what is happening is happening to me. Humans have the nature to ask questions beyond their spectrum of thinking and driving themselves to insanity trying to find an answer to these questions. Whether the answer is correct or not doesn't matter, but what we really focus on is whether or not the answer we received/find quenches the undying curiosity that possesses us.
There are more than seven billion people on this earth and yet it is me that has to endure this nightmare. Can I call it a nightmare, if I haven't yet woken up from it? No. But I choose to call it one because it leaves me with a small ounce of hope that I will wake up soon, and this was all a horrifying dream. But as the days go on the small bit of hope I keep clinging onto, dwindles, and when I come to terms with the fact, I won't be waking up is when I will make sure I will never wake up again. And the next time I open my eyes I hope to see the crimson red hair of my mother as we reunite in each other arms before looking down and watching the two people we'd left behind. I, by choice. Her, by naivety.
I wish I were stronger. I wish I had the strength to continue on in this endless regime of escape and then captured. Smell of hope and then blood. Rush of adrenaline and then pain. Continuous planning and then punishments. But there is only so much I could take. Was this going to be my life now? The inability to experience a sense of freedom? I want to break down in a heave of sobs, but it doesn't fix anything and nothing changes. Nothing ever fucking changes and I'm sick of it. I'm sick of this prison. I'm sick of staring at the same wall. I'm sick of being babied. I'm sick of not being able to maneuver my body the way I want to. I'm sick of the constant checking on me. Hell, I'm sick of needing help to use the fucking toilet!
I had told myself that I would spend my time injured mapping the house. I don't know how I had deemed that possible when I couldn't even lift up an arm without wincing. I suppose I had underestimated my pain tolerance by a good deal. Because I don't see myself so much as standing for 5 months.
I take a quick glance at the clock. Twenty more minutes before the hourly check up. I huff and tilt my head back. Not gazing at anything in particular. Waiting for exaushtion to make itself apparent. Sleep seemed like the only thing that helped as a distraction.