Elisabeth
We always change / We are forever free
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction

SHADOW FIGHTING

It was a day in September and the light was scarce when she sat down on the cold floor, shivering. She reached for the matches, needing a candle's warmth, but as she took the last one out of the package and tried to lit it, it cracked into two pieces. So there was nothing else to do than to sit before an unlit candle, freezing, but closing her eyes as if the cold was imaginary. 

The silence here is stunning. She imagines this must be like the silence of outer space, where all events unroll muted, like the first movies presented in dark theaters. Some days, her own breathing is the only sound she hears. But that day, there was a light wind blowing around the house, almost musically, rising and falling. 

And she followed the steps of the meditation as she had learned before, executing each step as a skilfull dancer who knows that only exercise can allow her to approach perfection. While the wind continued howling around the walls, leaking through the windows and she followed breath after breath, she realized she could actually see her mind. She could see it as a small house standing on a hill, battered by the seasons, neglected by humanity. Its fundations were decaying, leading it to edge over, ready to topple off the hill in a final collapse. But still, as she looked closer, she realized that this was the strangest of houses, but not necessarily in a bad way. That intensity with which it clung to the earth as a weed that opposes removal by any manner, the proud refusal to be beaten down by the ceaseless rains that poured down on it, that patience with which it held up those battered walls while no one tended to it. It was not a pretty house, not a house radiating warmth, maybe not a welcoming house either; but it was one that could withstand centuries of hardship. It was a house to wage a war in, a scaled-down fort, and a house to build warriors in. 

There it was: her cue to open her eyes, to get up from the cold that had numbed her skin. There were very few possessions to pack, very few things she needed to take back with her. Her coat she simply put on, and the woolen hat, and the lined gloves, and the backpack she hauled on her back. Then the only thing she still had to do was to open the door that she had locked after herself weeks before and to return to the world, where her battle had been waiting for her to step back in.

4
0
0
Juice
8 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction
SHADOW FIGHTING
It was a day in September and the light was scarce when she sat down on the cold floor, shivering. She reached for the matches, needing a candle's warmth, but as she took the last one out of the package and tried to lit it, it cracked into two pieces. So there was nothing else to do than to sit before an unlit candle, freezing, but closing her eyes as if the cold was imaginary. 
The silence here is stunning. She imagines this must be like the silence of outer space, where all events unroll muted, like the first movies presented in dark theaters. Some days, her own breathing is the only sound she hears. But that day, there was a light wind blowing around the house, almost musically, rising and falling. 
And she followed the steps of the meditation as she had learned before, executing each step as a skilfull dancer who knows that only exercise can allow her to approach perfection. While the wind continued howling around the walls, leaking through the windows and she followed breath after breath, she realized she could actually see her mind. She could see it as a small house standing on a hill, battered by the seasons, neglected by humanity. Its fundations were decaying, leading it to edge over, ready to topple off the hill in a final collapse. But still, as she looked closer, she realized that this was the strangest of houses, but not necessarily in a bad way. That intensity with which it clung to the earth as a weed that opposes removal by any manner, the proud refusal to be beaten down by the ceaseless rains that poured down on it, that patience with which it held up those battered walls while no one tended to it. It was not a pretty house, not a house radiating warmth, maybe not a welcoming house either; but it was one that could withstand centuries of hardship. It was a house to wage a war in, a scaled-down fort, and a house to build warriors in. 
There it was: her cue to open her eyes, to get up from the cold that had numbed her skin. There were very few possessions to pack, very few things she needed to take back with her. Her coat she simply put on, and the woolen hat, and the lined gloves, and the backpack she hauled on her back. Then the only thing she still had to do was to open the door that she had locked after herself weeks before and to return to the world, where her battle had been waiting for her to step back in.
4
0
0
Juice
8 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

BELIEVE THIS, IF YOU WANT TO

You do not know what to do - 

All the fallen angels

Littered on your bedroom floor - 

And you find you cannot fly,

Nor escape reality as you did before

When you were safe

Sheltered

By saviours and sanctuaries

By commitment and belief.

But without the angels

The only thing left to believe in - 

You

3
0
0
Juice
13 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
BELIEVE THIS, IF YOU WANT TO
You do not know what to do - 
All the fallen angels
Littered on your bedroom floor - 
And you find you cannot fly,
Nor escape reality as you did before
When you were safe
Sheltered
By saviours and sanctuaries
By commitment and belief.
But without the angels
The only thing left to believe in - 
You
3
0
0
Juice
13 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

WHERE THE MUSIC GOES WHEN THE SONG IS FINISHED

The songs of broken instruments

Hidden in attics

In a slumber where the sound sleeps

And I long to hear your voice

Without which there is no sense

Just piano chords hammered into life

Harmony but without soul

And I wish to fall

Into the place of Rumi's poem

Where everything is music

Because when I fall

I can only meet the floor

Not fly up

Into a world where music lives

Where the broken and the dead cannot be lost

Go where at least, when we die,

Fall up to meet the summit of the sky,

The music plays on

5
0
0
Juice
14 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
WHERE THE MUSIC GOES WHEN THE SONG IS FINISHED
The songs of broken instruments
Hidden in attics
In a slumber where the sound sleeps
And I long to hear your voice
Without which there is no sense
Just piano chords hammered into life
Harmony but without soul

And I wish to fall
Into the place of Rumi's poem
Where everything is music
Because when I fall
I can only meet the floor
Not fly up
Into a world where music lives
Where the broken and the dead cannot be lost
Go where at least, when we die,
Fall up to meet the summit of the sky,
The music plays on
5
0
0
Juice
14 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

WHITE LIGHT SPECTRUM

I am light refracted

Many ways

Broken in colors

United in white

But it's only me in control

Of what you see whenever

You choose to look at me

Sometimes I wear camouflage

To blend in with the crowd

And though you'll look you will not see

Me in all reality, but just a weak reflection

Of the spectrum I keep

Sometimes I am vibrant blue

Waves of energy radiate

And this light is the fuel

That sustains my dance beats

And when you let me down

I am stretched out, decelerated

Waves of almost infrared

Yet I hide my lethargy

In ruby and in crimson

But when I find acceptance

In your eyes I might just shift

Metamorphose into the realm

Of gamma rays where all is clear

Ecstasy of white light leaping

And where only things immune

To all that vibrant radiation can

Maintain themselves despite the storm

Despite the photons' fireworks

Anyway, I do not long

Too much for ultimacy

In gamma dancing

Likewise, there is no use

In fearing the degrading

Infrared destruction

Of perceived happiness.

Because to maneuver in subtility

Choosing a color that's visible

To your eyes simplifies

The way in which you see me

And the way that I perceive myself

Binding me down to Earth

Shading myself in tones of quiet  

Humility and modesty

And when we beat the books

Of karma and samsara

Maybe then we can surpass

The white light colors all together

Maybe then we can be simply

True and purest energy

4
0
0
Juice
13 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
WHITE LIGHT SPECTRUM
I am light refracted
Many ways
Broken in colors
United in white
But it's only me in control
Of what you see whenever
You choose to look at me

Sometimes I wear camouflage
To blend in with the crowd
And though you'll look you will not see
Me in all reality, but just a weak reflection
Of the spectrum I keep

Sometimes I am vibrant blue
Waves of energy radiate
And this light is the fuel
That sustains my dance beats

And when you let me down
I am stretched out, decelerated
Waves of almost infrared
Yet I hide my lethargy
In ruby and in crimson

But when I find acceptance
In your eyes I might just shift
Metamorphose into the realm
Of gamma rays where all is clear
Ecstasy of white light leaping
And where only things immune
To all that vibrant radiation can
Maintain themselves despite the storm
Despite the photons' fireworks

Anyway, I do not long
Too much for ultimacy
In gamma dancing
Likewise, there is no use
In fearing the degrading
Infrared destruction
Of perceived happiness.
Because to maneuver in subtility
Choosing a color that's visible
To your eyes simplifies
The way in which you see me
And the way that I perceive myself
Binding me down to Earth
Shading myself in tones of quiet  
Humility and modesty
And when we beat the books
Of karma and samsara
Maybe then we can surpass
The white light colors all together
Maybe then we can be simply
True and purest energy
4
0
0
Juice
13 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth

KILLERS & VICTIMS

Drowning as you push me under

I cannot find the strength to fight

The weight of the water

And the weak light that shines

Above the surface makes me wonder

Is it not more easy to let go?

There is a song in the waves

That soothes the pain

A calm that comes with dying

An embrace that is more loving

Than the love you gave me

Because your heart was a hammer

Meant to break me with

And breaking I find I cannot breathe

I cannot see, I cannot hear

I cannot bear this pain

The fight to stay here

Is it not good enough

To go down where the ocean's song is played

By musicians who are not seen?

Do I have to conquer

Your madness, my apathy?

We meet in the realm of your insanity

Where you kill me and I let myself be killed

A passive star blinking out 

Of existence without much of a scene

Dying obediently, nearly lovingly

As if to grant your wish is

One final act of affection

But as the light twists

I wonder where you'll go

When I'm not there

Who will hold you back

Who will sing your heart's maniac

To sleep. Who will hold your hand

When you want to kill the crowds

Who will serve you patience

When you wield the destroying hand

Over all that you can reach

But the light strikes what I see

And then I find

Reflection of me

Echo of my mind

Remnant of who I was

Before

And though only caused by refraction

Though darkly and trembling

And running out of air

I reach out and fight

For the surface

I twist and beat

Leaden arms and heavy feet

And the water spins around

But I fight - I might live

Or die in these moments

In this turning light

Under these twisted waters

Under your destructing hands

But if I live

The echo is still in my hearing

The vision is still in my eyes

And while you have crossed the line

So many times you can never be

Anything else than killer

I can be more than I was

Before. I can be more and move beyond

The time I was your victim

And while you may - or may not - 

Kill me in this minute

The echo is safe

The unbroken mind of me

Stays forever free

And stays forever unbroken

And stays forever out of your reach

13
1
0
Juice
35 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Challenge of the Week #58: You are a victim of injustice, write a story about it. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $150. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Elisabeth
KILLERS & VICTIMS
Drowning as you push me under
I cannot find the strength to fight
The weight of the water
And the weak light that shines
Above the surface makes me wonder
Is it not more easy to let go?

There is a song in the waves
That soothes the pain
A calm that comes with dying
An embrace that is more loving
Than the love you gave me
Because your heart was a hammer
Meant to break me with
And breaking I find I cannot breathe
I cannot see, I cannot hear
I cannot bear this pain
The fight to stay here
Is it not good enough
To go down where the ocean's song is played
By musicians who are not seen?
Do I have to conquer
Your madness, my apathy?
We meet in the realm of your insanity
Where you kill me and I let myself be killed
A passive star blinking out 
Of existence without much of a scene
Dying obediently, nearly lovingly
As if to grant your wish is
One final act of affection

But as the light twists
I wonder where you'll go
When I'm not there
Who will hold you back
Who will sing your heart's maniac
To sleep. Who will hold your hand
When you want to kill the crowds
Who will serve you patience
When you wield the destroying hand
Over all that you can reach

But the light strikes what I see
And then I find
Reflection of me
Echo of my mind
Remnant of who I was
Before
And though only caused by refraction
Though darkly and trembling
And running out of air
I reach out and fight
For the surface
I twist and beat
Leaden arms and heavy feet
And the water spins around
But I fight - I might live
Or die in these moments
In this turning light
Under these twisted waters
Under your destructing hands
But if I live
The echo is still in my hearing
The vision is still in my eyes
And while you have crossed the line
So many times you can never be
Anything else than killer
I can be more than I was
Before. I can be more and move beyond
The time I was your victim
And while you may - or may not - 
Kill me in this minute
The echo is safe
The unbroken mind of me
Stays forever free
And stays forever unbroken
And stays forever out of your reach
13
1
0
Juice
35 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

TRAVELLING TOGETHER

Nomads,

Displaced in time

And lost in space

I wanted to be

Without ties

Rootless

A wanderer who goes

Wherever she needs to

Not living to stay

Not staying for love

Not anchored by blood

The ties of the family

But away from society

It's harder to hold on to

Identity; I become

A voice without words

A face without expression

A worker without goals

Achieving the inverse

Of what we wanted, in reality

When we are rootless and nothing

Holds us back from leaving

No one asking us to stay

No one to say they need us

No one to make us feel centered

Having arrived at home

Nomads, travelling

Casting trails in dust and growing shadows

It is not leaving a place that pains me

It is travelling alone

The cities are full of stayers, 

Those who have found reasons

To stay for, while I go

Wondering where they are

The nomads with whom I belong

And why we cannot be

Together as we move around

Unanchored but connected

The only ties 

The ties between each other

6
2
0
Juice
14 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
TRAVELLING TOGETHER
Nomads,
Displaced in time
And lost in space

I wanted to be
Without ties
Rootless
A wanderer who goes
Wherever she needs to
Not living to stay
Not staying for love
Not anchored by blood
The ties of the family

But away from society
It's harder to hold on to
Identity; I become
A voice without words
A face without expression
A worker without goals

Achieving the inverse
Of what we wanted, in reality
When we are rootless and nothing
Holds us back from leaving
No one asking us to stay
No one to say they need us
No one to make us feel centered
Having arrived at home

Nomads, travelling
Casting trails in dust and growing shadows
It is not leaving a place that pains me
It is travelling alone
The cities are full of stayers, 
Those who have found reasons
To stay for, while I go
Wondering where they are
The nomads with whom I belong
And why we cannot be
Together as we move around
Unanchored but connected
The only ties 
The ties between each other
6
2
0
Juice
14 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth

MOVING IN PLACE

We cannot deny

The pain of empty chairs

Across a room once filled entirely

And the reminder non-negotiable

Of what we lost to get here

Where we are

To see your face

When distraction creeps

Along the gutters with old rain

And all that matters falls away

As I see you in a stranger's face

And for a moment this reality

Is real before it vanishes completely

And forever. How could it be

That you and me are walking here

Towards each other, to meet halfway

When we are more estranged than all these people

Who have never met. If I could only

Meet you anew again, as if struck by

A shared amnesia to prevent us from remembering

We cannot meet again

We are helpless like the butterflies

Caught in cobwebs of customs

Inflexible in our refusal to move past

What cannot be described with words

A hatred that is physical, an immunity

To presence and speech and demeanor

And motionless like this we cannot move

Towards or away from what we want to flee from

The empty chair, the stranger's face

The sound that is your name when spoken

By mutual acquaintance. 

Can we unravel all that happened

Before and after, after and now

Can we find a middle ground

To meet despite the anger when

The hatred turns to dust?

I do not know. 

Can the estranged stop being so?

Can those who hate stop doing so

Turning around with grace and ease

Dancing in our ballet shoes

And the mirrors look within

And all the moves are perfect

And the dancers are in sync

With the music and the changing lights

And always with each other

Connected by an overarching

Choreography of movement

Suspense, stillness

2
0
0
Juice
15 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth
MOVING IN PLACE
We cannot deny
The pain of empty chairs
Across a room once filled entirely
And the reminder non-negotiable
Of what we lost to get here
Where we are

To see your face
When distraction creeps
Along the gutters with old rain
And all that matters falls away
As I see you in a stranger's face
And for a moment this reality
Is real before it vanishes completely
And forever. How could it be
That you and me are walking here
Towards each other, to meet halfway
When we are more estranged than all these people
Who have never met. If I could only
Meet you anew again, as if struck by
A shared amnesia to prevent us from remembering
We cannot meet again
We are helpless like the butterflies
Caught in cobwebs of customs
Inflexible in our refusal to move past
What cannot be described with words
A hatred that is physical, an immunity
To presence and speech and demeanor
And motionless like this we cannot move
Towards or away from what we want to flee from
The empty chair, the stranger's face
The sound that is your name when spoken
By mutual acquaintance. 

Can we unravel all that happened
Before and after, after and now
Can we find a middle ground
To meet despite the anger when
The hatred turns to dust?
I do not know. 
Can the estranged stop being so?
Can those who hate stop doing so
Turning around with grace and ease
Dancing in our ballet shoes
And the mirrors look within
And all the moves are perfect
And the dancers are in sync
With the music and the changing lights
And always with each other
Connected by an overarching
Choreography of movement
Suspense, stillness
2
0
0
Juice
15 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction

REMEMBER, FORGET MY FATE

And I open my eyes. I must have seen this grey ceiling many times, and the white curtains that are being tossed in the wind blowing through the open window.

It is a minute to seven and I disable the alarm clock before it starts ringing; I won’t be needing that anymore. There’s the window with the view I walk towards; a view that must be very well known to me. And yet I do not know it, and I do not know this room with its contents. I do not know the sounds the creaky floor makes as I walk across it, or the pointy edges of the bed sides I bump my knee into as I am maneuvering to inspect all corners of this apartment that must be my own. And my hands – I do not know my hands; I have never seen these wrinkles before, or the pigmentations on my wrists, or the lines across my nails. There is a mirror in the corner of the room, and this face, I have also not seen before. But watching it, many things are becoming apparent: this hollow face, the eyes sunken, its pallor, the blue tinge of the lips – I must be ill. Of course there is also that feeling of increased gravity pulling down on me, and the weakness of the limbs I stand on trying to defy that gravity. And there is the bottle of pills on my nightstand, with the yellow label reading capecitabine, so it must be cancer and I must be losing, because on the same nightstand there is a leaflet that reads Palliative care.

I move through these things as a stranger trying to learn who I am, and yet with everything I see there are connections coming up in my mind. They must be memories of things I learned, but they are most curious. Watching the poster of the solar system on the wall opposite from my bed, I can see the orbits of the planets in my head as they move around the sun, and there are intricate formulas to join this image, with which to calculate the distance between Earth and each of these planets across the seasons. And I can see these numbers changing, most gradually, at the 4th decimal place in real time, without any effort. I do not know who I was before, but I am sure that my mind was not this sharp then, or I would have lived in a castle full of riches, not in this Spartan apartment. It is as if my mind has reached full culmination, remembering everything I forgot before, and those connections have filled up all the potential of the neurons in my brain, re-writing what they stored before. This must be why I don’t remember me, or this place, or anything I ever did, but why I know everything else by just looking at it. I have all the knowledge distilled from experience but without the context, without the personal side of history – I have lost myself to gain what must be ultimate insight, an ultimate clarity of mind, and a repository of knowledge that is blooming, even though transient. Because this body I inhabit is near death, so the mind might have found culmination, but the body has too, in that its lifespan is nearly achieved. This life is nearly completed. But before then, why not use this clarity for one final gift to all those people I must have once loved, but who are now forgotten? And for all others unbeknownst to me, struggling with the same problems I must have struggled with, so that they too may find more time to give their gifts and to do their things.

I carefully step over the blown-out candles near the window and sit down on a cushion that’s been placed there on the floor. There’s a large volume that’s been shoved aside, as if angrily, that reads: Oncology, on the arise of tumors. Was I trying to cure myself? Curiously, I open it, and the text comes alive as my eyes speed over the words. I turn page after page as I see malignant change arising in a derailed cell, genes mutating through ultraviolet radiation, ever so slowly taking years to get a significant change where this cell is allowed to start dividing crazily. And even then it is only a small thing, kept in check by surrounding tissues that protect the body from being harmed truly. And then, it breaches the barriers and starts compressing the tissues around it, perhaps leading to pain as it presses itself into nerves, or spreading unnoticed as it gains access to the bloodstream, flowing with rivers of blood to lodge itself in a new, non-colonized space. And those colonies there will cause additional problems, secreting small chemicals to egotistically promote its own growth, irrespective of the damage induced on the body as a whole. By that time, weight loss will have set in, and anemia will follow. That dead tiredness that has taken possession of me derives from that growth inside of me. It has grown into my bones, which are continuously at risk of cracking as they are hollowed out by this malignancy. And there is the heroic attempt of doctors to kill these derailed cells without killing the organism – without killing me – with all these toxic compounds; the stuff that has made my hair fall out. And there’s the radiotherapy, where you use what causes tumors to kill tumors, because cancer cells can often be killed by what kills normal cells.

Then why was I not cured? The answer lies in that, to cure me, you would need to kill all of the tumor cells. If only one of them were to remain, invisible on an X-ray or an MRI, it would regrow relentlessly, rendering me sick again with cells resistant to treatment, and death would follow. But how can you kill the sick cells only, leaving the healthy cells alive? As I read and read and time goes by, the sky changing color, the answer starts to form in the images playing through my mind – something not in the books, something marvelous. And I know, in this brilliant moment where the doubts subside, that I have the cure. So, in the empty pages at the end of the book, I start writing down what is needed for this final battle, to reverse the cancer and to save its host. But doing so drains me of my power, and having completed these instructions, I lay myself down to sleep, placing the book next to me, an eulogy of hope. And watching the revolution of the planets on the inside of my eyes, I find myself slip away, gradually, into a darkness beyond darkness, into a state beyond life, neither waking nor sleeping nor being, and all is quiet, and all is complete.

7
2
0
Juice
75 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by Elisabeth in portal Fiction
REMEMBER, FORGET MY FATE
And I open my eyes. I must have seen this grey ceiling many times, and the white curtains that are being tossed in the wind blowing through the open window.
It is a minute to seven and I disable the alarm clock before it starts ringing; I won’t be needing that anymore. There’s the window with the view I walk towards; a view that must be very well known to me. And yet I do not know it, and I do not know this room with its contents. I do not know the sounds the creaky floor makes as I walk across it, or the pointy edges of the bed sides I bump my knee into as I am maneuvering to inspect all corners of this apartment that must be my own. And my hands – I do not know my hands; I have never seen these wrinkles before, or the pigmentations on my wrists, or the lines across my nails. There is a mirror in the corner of the room, and this face, I have also not seen before. But watching it, many things are becoming apparent: this hollow face, the eyes sunken, its pallor, the blue tinge of the lips – I must be ill. Of course there is also that feeling of increased gravity pulling down on me, and the weakness of the limbs I stand on trying to defy that gravity. And there is the bottle of pills on my nightstand, with the yellow label reading capecitabine, so it must be cancer and I must be losing, because on the same nightstand there is a leaflet that reads Palliative care.
I move through these things as a stranger trying to learn who I am, and yet with everything I see there are connections coming up in my mind. They must be memories of things I learned, but they are most curious. Watching the poster of the solar system on the wall opposite from my bed, I can see the orbits of the planets in my head as they move around the sun, and there are intricate formulas to join this image, with which to calculate the distance between Earth and each of these planets across the seasons. And I can see these numbers changing, most gradually, at the 4th decimal place in real time, without any effort. I do not know who I was before, but I am sure that my mind was not this sharp then, or I would have lived in a castle full of riches, not in this Spartan apartment. It is as if my mind has reached full culmination, remembering everything I forgot before, and those connections have filled up all the potential of the neurons in my brain, re-writing what they stored before. This must be why I don’t remember me, or this place, or anything I ever did, but why I know everything else by just looking at it. I have all the knowledge distilled from experience but without the context, without the personal side of history – I have lost myself to gain what must be ultimate insight, an ultimate clarity of mind, and a repository of knowledge that is blooming, even though transient. Because this body I inhabit is near death, so the mind might have found culmination, but the body has too, in that its lifespan is nearly achieved. This life is nearly completed. But before then, why not use this clarity for one final gift to all those people I must have once loved, but who are now forgotten? And for all others unbeknownst to me, struggling with the same problems I must have struggled with, so that they too may find more time to give their gifts and to do their things.
I carefully step over the blown-out candles near the window and sit down on a cushion that’s been placed there on the floor. There’s a large volume that’s been shoved aside, as if angrily, that reads: Oncology, on the arise of tumors. Was I trying to cure myself? Curiously, I open it, and the text comes alive as my eyes speed over the words. I turn page after page as I see malignant change arising in a derailed cell, genes mutating through ultraviolet radiation, ever so slowly taking years to get a significant change where this cell is allowed to start dividing crazily. And even then it is only a small thing, kept in check by surrounding tissues that protect the body from being harmed truly. And then, it breaches the barriers and starts compressing the tissues around it, perhaps leading to pain as it presses itself into nerves, or spreading unnoticed as it gains access to the bloodstream, flowing with rivers of blood to lodge itself in a new, non-colonized space. And those colonies there will cause additional problems, secreting small chemicals to egotistically promote its own growth, irrespective of the damage induced on the body as a whole. By that time, weight loss will have set in, and anemia will follow. That dead tiredness that has taken possession of me derives from that growth inside of me. It has grown into my bones, which are continuously at risk of cracking as they are hollowed out by this malignancy. And there is the heroic attempt of doctors to kill these derailed cells without killing the organism – without killing me – with all these toxic compounds; the stuff that has made my hair fall out. And there’s the radiotherapy, where you use what causes tumors to kill tumors, because cancer cells can often be killed by what kills normal cells.
Then why was I not cured? The answer lies in that, to cure me, you would need to kill all of the tumor cells. If only one of them were to remain, invisible on an X-ray or an MRI, it would regrow relentlessly, rendering me sick again with cells resistant to treatment, and death would follow. But how can you kill the sick cells only, leaving the healthy cells alive? As I read and read and time goes by, the sky changing color, the answer starts to form in the images playing through my mind – something not in the books, something marvelous. And I know, in this brilliant moment where the doubts subside, that I have the cure. So, in the empty pages at the end of the book, I start writing down what is needed for this final battle, to reverse the cancer and to save its host. But doing so drains me of my power, and having completed these instructions, I lay myself down to sleep, placing the book next to me, an eulogy of hope. And watching the revolution of the planets on the inside of my eyes, I find myself slip away, gradually, into a darkness beyond darkness, into a state beyond life, neither waking nor sleeping nor being, and all is quiet, and all is complete.
7
2
0
Juice
75 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

FOR PROMETHEUS

We were born as dragons

Learned to fly

The hard way - 

Thrown out of the nest

Falling to our deaths until

We realized we had wings

And the sky was our possession

We were born as dragons

Something in our blood

Makes all we say catch flame

We live as a fire

We love as a flame

Distilled concentration focused to reach

A new, yellow glare of intensity

In a moment

We flare out of love for life

Blinding you as lightning striking

And watching us you cannot breathe

In a moment we will flicker and

The light goes out.

We live as a flame

We love as a fire

And when we die

We go flying to follow

Wherever the smoke goes

But until then

Our hearts are fuelled on flames

That burn brightly, brightly

As a thousand suns and moons

Lined up in a glowing sky

And nothing and no one

Can hold us down 

Or stop us on this flight.

3
0
0
Juice
10 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
FOR PROMETHEUS
We were born as dragons
Learned to fly
The hard way - 
Thrown out of the nest
Falling to our deaths until
We realized we had wings
And the sky was our possession

We were born as dragons
Something in our blood
Makes all we say catch flame
We live as a fire
We love as a flame
Distilled concentration focused to reach
A new, yellow glare of intensity

In a moment
We flare out of love for life
Blinding you as lightning striking
And watching us you cannot breathe
In a moment we will flicker and
The light goes out.
We live as a flame
We love as a fire
And when we die
We go flying to follow
Wherever the smoke goes
But until then
Our hearts are fuelled on flames
That burn brightly, brightly
As a thousand suns and moons
Lined up in a glowing sky
And nothing and no one
Can hold us down 
Or stop us on this flight.
3
0
0
Juice
10 reads
Login to post comments.
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse

EXIT

There are people who die

And those who disappear

From my life

I wonder which you are, even though

It does not change a thing.

Either way, you’re gone

But to know that you were safe, but out of reach

To know that you were happy, but unavailable

To know that you were sheltered, but secluded

Would console me as I suffer from uncertainty

The question whether you are

Dead or only missing

Only absent or no longer living

Returning again and again like a strange kind of religion

A prayer of worry, a mantra of disbelief

The precognition I must lose you again

Right now, or sometime in the near future

But detachedly, like the mime players

In a world of imagination in which we get to say

Goodbye.

6
1
0
Juice
9 reads
Donate coins to Elisabeth.
Juice
Cancel
Written by Elisabeth in portal Poetry & Free Verse
EXIT
There are people who die
And those who disappear
From my life
I wonder which you are, even though
It does not change a thing.
Either way, you’re gone

But to know that you were safe, but out of reach
To know that you were happy, but unavailable
To know that you were sheltered, but secluded
Would console me as I suffer from uncertainty
The question whether you are
Dead or only missing
Only absent or no longer living
Returning again and again like a strange kind of religion
A prayer of worry, a mantra of disbelief
The precognition I must lose you again
Right now, or sometime in the near future
But detachedly, like the mime players
In a world of imagination in which we get to say
Goodbye.
6
1
0
Juice
9 reads
Login to post comments.