William Blake
"Pity"
I almost died.
Burning in fever for a couple of days,
I had no choice (or any other wish) but to stare at the ceiling,
waiting to disintegrate.
Easily observing how all my dark plasma was been burnt.
All the thoughts that infuriate me (and I didn't know)
the rush, the caffeine, the greed, - the invisible fear of every moment -
Everything was been trans-mutated into ashes.
I let the fever run
No more analgesics.
Let hell do it's job.
Even if the chills were so dramatic
-alien-
while the body was dressed in flames -eaten by a collection of pains-
I was surprised by an invasion (a holy occupation) of patience
and good will.
Feeling no attraction to any of the "awards of life"
I speak up and... whisper: "I'm ready to go".
Like a little girl,
talking alone (maybe praying), repeating a mantra: "I'm ready to go", "I'm ready to go"...
I own nothing, not possessed, not possessing, not been hated, not been loved...I can go.
What held me back?
What made me shake the Ibuprofen bottle and swallow it's pills?
Compassion?
Pity toward so many things?
a naive mission: to help?
I enjoy the injection of calm, still
the redemption of innocence
the detachment from power.
When fire burns all the "important thoughts"
it only rests but spontaneously smiles,
and freedom of mind.
n
*
*
I am recovering, I didn't die.
:)
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