Karma-Koma

Coma. Does life get better when you live after a possible death or would you become full of greed not to die again? Don’t make a u-turn in a narrow busy street on a rainy gray Sunday afternoon. That is all I know now. Cold and sharp. Painful and restless. Can’t sleep. Can’t walk. Can’t sit. Can’t stand. Can’t stand the pain. The broken giggly bones only help in the loud symphony the nerves play, tingling every digit. Stings and tremors spreading like cancer in the silent gaps of the orchestra. The pain talks to me in this throbbing music. How do I communicate back? Pills. Muscle relaxants. Pain relief’s. Anti nausea. Anti inflammatory drugs. Drugs. Ecstatic talking to shut the pain away without listening. I decided not to take the pills. Flushed them down the sink one at a time to feed the fish in the lakes. To ease the pain of fish from toxic pollution.Why? I want to write the devastating song of my pain. I want to scream my life with every breath and share it with you, a stranger, a friend. This moment we share, the moment is not mine, no not yours either. It only is. It is not isn’t. We are, we are not aren’t. If you are, then I am, and if I am, then you are reading my sore wounds and hearing this bittersweet torment of my being. I have chosen to accept this irritating discomfort without the solemnity of drugs to write how we are. How we can chose to be the best we can be. To transmit life to another, a stranger, a friend, every moment, every now, with every heartbeat of ours, that is my will to be after coma. To be, here, for you, for me. Coma hereafter. Okay now, no, no, please go away.