Last words are for those who haven't said enough

Last words are for those who haven't said enough

In times of sickness, the bed becomes a prison. 


Save for a few energy-sapping forays outside the walls of the bedroom, much time is spent waiting for health's re-emergence in that cell of ours. However much it consumes our time and will, however much we long to resume our everyday activities, I've found that when ill, the prison for the body becomes the utopia for the mind. You see, during ill health we become so restricted that we go back to our original source of entertainment. The imagination.


With so little on our mind, we begin to think, contemplate on subjects that would usually occupy the space at the back of our heads, saved for precious moments such as these. Now, subject matter differs from person to person, of course. But it's an eye-opening experience. It allows us to have the heart-to-heart conversation with ourselves that we've always yearned for. A step back from everything to realign our thoughts in the capacity of our own heads.


Prison has never felt freer.