Fragments of Reality

Chapter 1 - Part I and II

I- In the foggy streets of Chem-Mind city

The days and nights go by without any change, the hours not even seeming to pass. Is it the pandemic? Or is it this new Fentanyl thing glued to my arm? I remember being in pain, going to a doctor for a prescription, taking those pills, putting a sticker with meds on my arm, and then... Numbness. The ache went away, that's for sure. But so did my energy, fast-thinking, and body control - I have been moving like I am made of water. I don't even feel like myself anymore.

Yes, sure, it is good to get out of bed and not feel every muscle of my body yelling bloody murder as if some elder being had torn them apart in my sleep. But I have lost so much; is it even worth it? It was just pain, after all. So after getting out of bed, I go into autopilot and watch myself from a distance doing the ordinary stuff of a daily routine. I brush my teeth, painstakingly brush my hair; I then go to the kitchen only to eschew away from the breakfast as if it was about to eat me instead and leave for work.

The outside world is a blur. A beautiful bleary multicolored landscape, I must say. Cars going under the speed limit rush by my side, and my brain processes the noise as if I had heard a Formula 1 car racing on the main roads. Lights, ads, and giant posters catch my attention, but I am no longer fast enough to read them, or sometimes I am just trying to buffer or process that speed. Kids cry, machines hum everywhere, the birds... No, there are no birds. People talk way too fast, even when they sound like a sloth; the words struggle to enter any logical sense, and I end up boring people with my feeble attempts of communicating. There is no way that my chemically stunned brain would be able to keep up.

But I, in the heart of that chaotic tornado, can't even react. I watch, wanting to participate. I am an outsider, an alien to that pandemonium, forced to merely slow experience life events without any chance of participation. I would say it could have been different if I was a farmer, but that would be a lie. I can barely carry myself around.

In a certain way, not noticing every detail from inside gives you a bigger panoramic that either galvanizes your soul or numbs it even further; it will depend on your mood and perspective for the day. But it's hard to have any specific viewpoint or plans for the following hours when the shaking starts, and you only wish you had stayed in bed.

Weren't these pills supposed to be antidepressants too? Anyways, it doesn't really matter. I think that what matters is that I don't feel it anymore. Nor the pain nor anything at all. Well, I do feel like I am watching my own life from a distance, but I guess that's not a feeling... It's more like a realistic analysis, right? Well, my brain is getting confused again. I might continue this journal later.

II- In the clear streets of "Reality"

From afar, I watch my dearest friend. He doesn't walk like he carried the world on his shoulders anymore, but I know that is not true.

I consider myself to be a healthy person. Well, maybe I am just an "hyperchondriac" (someone that utterly assumes that everything is fine, even when obviously not fine) - if that word existed. So I can't even start to imagine how it is to live constantly with intolerable pain, sometimes to the point of having him cry with his head on my lap. What I can do, though, is sympathize and empathize and do whatever possible to make sure his life is not as hard. And I can be there for him.

Watching him stutter to speak, having difficulties with his balance, and, prior to that, hearing his silent shouts for help engraved in me a desperate feeling of hope on his behalf.

Of course, when the aid came, and he got his prescription drugs to fight his overwhelming physical condition, I almost cried in joy - until the pills showed their actual effect. Yes, the pain went away; insomnia disappeared too, ultimately replaced by him completely knocked out; the spasms stopped, but the glim in his eyes also went away. I asked many times if he did not want to try another medication or therapy, but he was so tired, so under and overstimulated that he could not think of readapting again, and again, and again. He was way more hopeless than I was.

So I just stuck by his side, helping him through the swamp he was crossing. I realize that he is doing great for people who don't know him at all, like his and my family, and should continue taking this poison. I don't know what to think. It's either a foggy reality or a harrowing one.
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