You take your body for granted until one day you get sick. When you get sick, your body limits your mind from performing a normal routine you live by. You suddenly think slower and less sharp. Your thoughts get obese floating heavily inside your brain bouncing off the skull, costing you pain with unresolved issues. To turn and exam your ideas back and forth takes time. You think through fever and that fever as a wall that you must break with your mental fists to get some clarity for your mind. The waters of your mind get muddied by a malady you cannot defeat right away, and therefore you readjust your life around this disease, whether you like it or not. Your body aches, making you spend more time in bed than you used to. You feel, lazy and laziness becomes a part of you. Lucky if your sickness is temporary and in a week or two you’ll be fine. But what if an ailment chained you horrifically to itself for many years to come, or terminally ends your days on this planet? A smile over a sick face is a smile illness gives to death as a morbid hello from a fragile and ironic life.
In recovery from darkness, you’re dragging your entity out. Psychologically and physically, you’re pulling yourself through. Life is faith in your being to live and to prosper. When you’re sick, that faith gets shattered while you slowly collect those shattered pieces to remember how you felt before your sickness. That’s how I feel sometimes when I’m sick or imagine how I feel. Everything is too unstable in my sick world and my struggling to live being. Weakness that affects my mental state and I question every single thing, dragging myself deep down into depression. You’re not a fighter anymore. The world doesn’t need you. Everything looks and feels different. Food doesn’t taste well, and you barely eat at all. Your body needs fuel while your body’s rejecting this fuel. You play against yourself. Hard to concentrate or learn new things. Your steps are short. Sickness shows you that you’re nothing but a bag of bones, and what an unattractive bag of bones you are.
When I’m sick, my dreams are different. They’re strange. Sleep doesn’t give me rest. It’s slowly in a tedious manner heals my body. Someone dims colors. When you’re exhausted by your illness, nothing looks good to you. You’re not even fearing death anymore if you’re exhausted enough to live. Road to recovery is boring while you have to patiently follow it. Illness shows us our mortality. Illness hammers into our brains that we don’t have a body, we are a body. These pieces of meats over bones, this aging human being, the mind of which has been trapped in the darkness of a skull. What am I if I’m not blood running through my veins? A virus can kill so easily, what I call ME. Sickness is a reminder to our pride, and a wise man never takes this reminder for granted, disregarding it. And as the great Marcel Proust pointed out, “Illness is the doctor to whom we pay most heed; to kindness, to knowledge, we make promise only; pain we obey.”
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