The feeling of loss when you are in bed with the heaviest body, sinking into the mattress, and through the crumpled sheets, to the centre of something failing. Your head is falling into the depth of despair and you cannot wake up but not fall into sleep enough.
I have always been a sickly being. Since I was young, I have spent a lot of times roaming around the floor, lying on the futon and staring outside, the lights through the curtain changing colours from the morning brightness to the days end warmth. I would hear the cries of children around my age, playing in the nearby park. It was a sunny autumn afternoon.
I would dive deep under the covers and try not to hear the sounds of those laughter, and then but I am jealous of it, I want to join that never-ending feeling of running around under the sun, to scream out loud and come home exhausted but that contentment.
After getting into middle school, I was still sickly. I thought I would become a little stronger as I grew old but this was a too good anticipation. I was still constantly failing myself at the most important times. I would get sick right before exams. Before my performance. A day before going out with my friends. It went on like that in high school too.
Every time, it would put me off the edge. Disappointing myself over and over again. I tried to do all kinds of health tricks, eating well, exercising, drinking weird stuff and different style of nutritional maintenance and everything. And then but still, I am failing myself.
Lying in bed makes me want to cry every single time. I get even more depressed despite my daily depression, the sick bed depression holds more sharpness to it, and can cut more deep, gouging into the wounds you already hold from the accumulating years of fear and disappointment.
Now I am in bed, writing this right after waking up. I am sick again, this heavy weight of sore throat and headache clutching its hand around my soul and I can’t move freely. I stare at the ceiling above me, it’s creamy but illuminated by the shadow from the orange lamp on my desk. There are books scattered on the bed, a tissue box and a water bottle above my head, my black moleskine and pen open at the edge, I stare back at the silence, listening to the heart and rhythm of my breathing, as if to make sure I am existing in this space.
I have a blocked nose and can’t breathe well, there is something stuck in my lungs and it’s making a funny sound. Air doesn’t go through the throat like it’s supposed to and my skin is a little too warm. My hair is a mess from sleeping too much, empty stomach and I don’t feel hungry, body being just a hollow box holding nothing.
Just staring into the space, drifting in-between the state of sleep and reality, where you are not quite in either of them, that constant feeling of not standing anywhere at all.
I hear rain now. I think maybe, it’s crying for me, or with me. I don’t know.