On Sickness

"Royal colors bring out the soul in your eyes." Old. (September 2010)

Violent neuroses, violet in hue, sparking the most delicious disasters; dilating pupils that watch the light, the sparks, the flight of arts, the bright sunrise behind brown eyes �" that's right, I've peered into your soul, and what is it I've seen?

Nothing but fading memories; no, there's nothing of present or future but just the past, as it always has been. Nothing is present once it's past, and everything passes eventually.

The glow of skin and hair, vibrant from fluorescent light; it is illuminating, and illuminated by, it is bright and brilliant. This kind of true beauty is often unsavory �" and what better to savor than emotion.

Those violent violet neurons and the flighty glances, they support you from inside. The cold and clear world above: a hospital disposal, nuclear waste bins, all that's left of the world that matters. You are not sick �" you are very well, well without me and almighty in your self.

You do not need the aid that's given for granted inside white, disinfected walls. You are not sick; still, I will send you one thousand delicately folded pieces of paper. Cranes, of all sizes, to ensure that your health passes, that you join us in our sickness. One thousand, a beautiful violet in hue, trying to settle our most delicious disaster and frightening you, as much as myself.

I wonder, often, what you would do �" if you were sick like me, if you could see the world through my insanity and feel a kind of happiness the healthy don't understand.

"Through sickness and health". That's a hefty bond those that marry take on. What they don't realize is that it's often the health that breaks them apart, brigs them down, shuts them out and places them in their own clean, sterile rooms of blank thought. It's boring to be healthy. To be alive, yes; embrace each other in sickness, through insanity �" though it is not for me to assume your diagnoses will match.

It's just so sad when you know that while one's doing fine, the other isn't; which is which, I'm sure you have assumed. You never let loose, but you should be sick, like me. We may end up in the same ward, our minds sparking in time, pulses offbeat and irregular but together creating dissonant rhythm.

We would be admitted together without a need to heal, surrounded by paper cranes of a violent hue, swimming amongst our neuroses and ecstasy.

Reviews

[Sujash I. Purna]

"if you were sick like me, if you could see the world through my insanity and feel a kind of happiness the healthy don't understand"

I can understand it. This is a kind of a Slough of Despond one has to go through sometimes in their lives. Through sickness and health...

A sheer talent etched in the lines that flow with such a grace. You don't know how much I thought, "oh but why it ended that quick!" It's a lovely writing. The ending sounded a bit satirical: We would be admitted together without a need to heal.

Keep it up!