NEVER AT REST

Emma Moore

I lay here. Every damn night, I lay here. Not quite awake, not quite at rest, I lay here. My spirit contained within these four walls – desperate to escape them yet forever forbidden from leaving. Why must I stay? Why must I continue to progress through this half-life? Not quite awake, not quite at rest.

         I can see you all from my window – the window which appears to grow smaller and smaller with each passing moment – I can see you all – living – awake – free. I can hear you – laughing, conversing, praying to the Lord – I am not a religious man, but my god, what I’d give to be able to pray – to feel something – to feel that I have some form of companionship here in this room – the room which appears to grow smaller and smaller with each passing moment – as I lay here, not quite awake, not quite at rest.

         I am paralysed – unable to walk, unable to stand, unable to speak – a helpless victim of my own body – a still image reflecting a past which is no longer true – I am stuck within a single instant which will never pass, and what for? For your own, selfish comfort? Tell me, what comfort can one get from endlessly preserving a loved one’s sorrow? People often debate the existence of heaven and hell, and I am no religious man, but hell is not a river of sulphur, it is not a flaming furnace – it is this. Deafening silence, suffocating loneliness, not quite awake, never at rest.