Repose: An Experiment


  • The physical scars are my tattoos and they are my identity, of this I am sure.  The mottled brown skin, the lines that gently snake down both my thighs, help ground me to this earth in a way no mere object can.
  1. Sitting on the white plastic toilet in a sanitized room, forgotten and sobbing, whilst an orange alarm softly glows in the glum yellow light.
  • A few scars have been kissed several times by the cold blade of the surgeon’s scalpel, the limbs drained and bled, the bone gently replaced by metal.
  1. Learning to walk once again: hands steadying on the grey frame, one foot forward and one long silent inward scream released.
  • The flow of the blood up the arm; the nauseating but welcoming wave of painkiller, muscle relaxant and fresh oxygen combine to make the eyelashes flutter, the nurses grip that much tighter, the lights that much brighter, the machine beeps that much colder, my battered body that much older.
  1. The camaraderie that endears the long term patients to cluster together, the adhesive that bonds them, and the angels that watch over them.  The simple dichotomy of a child’s mind.
  • Food that is welcomed wholeheartedly into baying and desperate hands, the food that represents the familial bond.  Breaking bread with friends outside of that hospital environment, with the fresh air and clear blue skies and freewheeling squawking of the seagulls reinvigorates a tired body.
  1. The scars that sit silently, bubbling and boiling, ready to ruin a Thursday night with the T.V.
  • A visit to the emergency room; a quick stab of a needle and a swish of glistening scalpel; pressure, pressure upon the limb, watch it drain, watch it drain; the glittering of a thousand stars at night as the wheels glide over the tarmac.
  1. The book chronicling my experiences and more, given up around page 30.
  • At my most fractured, strapped to the bed, broken but healing, here then were people that cared, the conduits of a beauty unparalleled, the seeds of a love sown with the deep blues and pure whites of their uniform.  Of the nurses who took their time to talk, of their radiance and gorgeous faces.  A friendly radiographer taking the time to explain how his mysterious machines worked.
  1. The acceptance of your fate, whether on the operating table or in a newly prescribed drug, would be taken as a given, but was never fought for.  For all the wealth accumulated through the suffering of others.
  • Discharged and disowned, just one in a long bitter queue.
  1. The book I wished I had wrote when I had barely finished reading it.
  • The dream that I am yet to live.

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