By Fatjona R. Lubonja ©
Time was ironically playing with him. He went to sleep that day and did not wake up. The next day came and left, and the days after followed. Suddenly all those days left without his permission. He fell but was not pushed, yet he was lifted but was not held. Nothing belonged to him anymore, not even his mind. The reality bent and became unrecognizable. It had a name though, it wasn’t more a “thing” anymore, it was called Coma, from which he could not be awaken. It was a horizontal line, not below not above. Ironically not totally nothingness, and not even something, even thirsty for both, peace and destruction. He was preoccupied with other unrealistic world of dark and light. Counting the days he was cheating on was a thing of the past. He was stuck in the momentum. That’s how it felt to him being on no sides.
A brain hemorrhage had caused all that ordeal and later rampage that followed in his brain. Coma was his salvation, and it was a pact that he had to accept. Yet he was there not by choice but by necessity. He made peace with a cruel friend, if he could have called it so, yet generous, that showed him things the others could not have seen. He saw light and dark, people and shadows, even God visited him. They all talked to him, accept God, that only prayed, and came and left as it pleased. There was no truth and there was no fiction in that world, there was not even self.
What he felt was not important since it could not be measured. He needed to let the brain heal, the doctor said, there was too much hemorrhage and the risk of damaging the other part of the brain was irreversible. There was no point on never waking up. Staying static was the worst. But waking up was tricky. Was he ever going to speak, move, love, or remembering about love? Terrified he desired to stay where he was, nowhere. For how long he was there he could not recall. But oh how much he missed the world. Unknowingly he got wings and learned how to fly, until he belonged to the air. With his soul he traveled to sunset, he made love, he flew over the mountains, he even ate pizza.
Wake up, wake up, he told himself to eternity. He had no time to think, breathing needed to take over. The time bounced him to places by giving and taking oxygen. The “self” finally was returning home. While waking up, ignorant of the time he lost, he realized that the days did leave without his permission, indeed.
Fatjona R. Lubonja (2017). “The Days That Left Without Permission” ©