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A living being is complex. It requires molecules, atoms, particles, and an invisible immensity of lines and in-between lines, which pass unnoticed to the naked eye.
Functioning doesn’t require ingenuity, until there’s a short circuit. Turning the winch doesn’t harden the muscle, until it makes it hurt. Breathing is easy, until it isn’t.
The disease changes the look. The look we have over ourselves, the one others have on who we are. And the main focus frames the movie of life in a wider screen. Because perfection is only noticed when it isn’t there, and what we have is only felt when there’s nothing to lose.
Inside me, I have lungs not worthy of the title; and the grant of an inhale that would fill my chest is a remote ideal, tied in chords and moorings that gulp my air. I won’t lie, because it hurts. I won’t lie, because it is a desperate suffocation, having to beg for oxygen. I won’t lie, because when reality starts distorting, it’s my life that fades.
And there were many times when I laid down in that room of fluorescent light and ether smell, with my lips dyed blue, my skin soaked in sweat and tears, my breath gasping to be sufficient, my senses evading through my fingers; and doctors surrounding my inert body in a desperate attempt of bringing it back. And all those times, I was afraid. I was afraid, because every time I saw the “STOP” button at a palm’s reach. But I ended up leaning against “PAUSE”, only then to press “PLAY”, once again.
I’m not a fighter, as in this game I’m nothing more than a piece in a chess board, and being strong is not being indestructible – it is persisting with intelligence.
The knowledge I gained by walking the thin line was the Truth, signaled in the treaty that granted us life. The one that is always there, undercover until it catches us off guard; the one who belongs to everyone and to each one. And that truth, is the end. With no taboos or filters. With no silenced words and interrupted phrases.
Because Death is real, it happens, and it doesn’t run away when it turns to catch.
So I hear Her voice, and I let it shake me. And in the advantage of the fear it awakens, I scream louder at Her, with the time I don’t buy, but that I make worthy. Not the pity. But the miracle in which my DNA is composed.
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