Sick of the same

I've begun to realise that a lot of the prose I write centres around pretty dark themes, so sorry about that!

Sick of the same

I’m sick of the same.
Sick of the same sounds, the same tastes, the same smells, the same comfort, the same life, the same touch. I want the sun to go away, and the rain, in its reiterating personification to return. But it won’t. I know it won’t. I’m stuck in a world of want, with no way to fulfil my needs. I physically can’t. The mind prevails over body. My body. And so I stay here laying in this bed, covered in these painful sores looking out the window or looking at the drawn curtains. Watching the floating flecks of dust coming in and out of my focus.
I have a lot of time. Most of it is spent watching nurses come and go, they follow a routine. In the morning they come and draw the curtains, and feed me. Through a pipe. In the evening, the curtains are drawn again. And I am left in the dark to sit here and think. As nothing inspires me in the daytime, I use this time to think deeper, I use this time to keep myself entertained. Sometimes I think about how the world outside this drab room must have changed since my incarceration. Sometimes, I like to think about how the world outside this drab room has been destroyed by some wayward apocalypse. That thought makes me happy. But most of all I think about leaving this room. In the darkness, I cannot see my lifeless body, its crippled spine, its flaking skin. In the darkness I cannot see myself slowly dying. And so, it is in the darkness my hope returns and I think of escape. An escape that isn’t death.