Inhale. Exhale.
Inhale. Exhale.

This is the current soundtrack to my life, with the occasional percussion line of machines beeping. When my song first started, it was fast and intense. Words of a full recovery to blur my harsh reality. I did everything. Medication, nutrition, weeks away from home. I was ready to fight.

Like the flip of a switch, my song had come to a halt. Like slamming your hands on random keys of a piano. I was at a stand still. I heard a loud ring, a rush of voices. I see objects going over me, going in me. I can’t feel them. I can hear crying, yet I feel no sadness. I have never felt so close to oblivion in my life.

My song is now unnatural. A sour note in every chord. My lungs filled with a ventilator, my stomach filled with tube feeding, my eyes filled with no sight. A mind full of inexpressible thoughts.

I am still the conductor of my song. This beat is far too rigid. I want my song to be free. To be my own. I begin to slow the tempo with my mind. The bells of percussion join. The voices join. Am I joining any longer?