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Decrescendo
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?
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