There was this girl I read about a long time ago who went for an operation under general anaesthetic but somehow, due to a dosage miscalculation or whatever, she was able to feel the pain completely even though she was fully paralyzed. She couldn’t scream for help; couldn’t do anything to stop or alert the doctors. She had to seek mental help to deal with the trauma afterwards.
This girl’s body had become her prison for a day.
Now, imagine: You’re on your way to school. A car you don’t see. In an instant, you become fully paralyzed. Weeks. Months. Your limbs refuse to move. Your eyelids refuse to move. You can’t respond, but you can feel. You can think.
Your angry, angry soul commands your body to move – get out of this darn bed and punch something hard. Yet your body isn’t a part of you anymore.
In a state like that, I’d want to cry at my situation at least. Saying I’d be frustrated at my helplessness would be an understatement – in my head, I’d be screaming and thrashing about. The intensity of my anger and frustration would reach violent levels – if only they could be. I’d just want to scream and scream and cry and run and run and run.
But my body wouldn’t allow me to do anything. All that screaming anger at the world building up inside me – I can’t express it. Held down by my own body. All that fire needing to be unleashed when I can’t do so much as blink.
I’d go mental in an hour.
Now, imagine going mental in a state of complete paralysis.
I’d scream for death. I’d scream to be freed from the confines of my own body, holding me down from releasing all that fire inside me. In Heaven my soul would be liberated.
Art. Dance. Dance is a form of expression. So is writing, the way I’m typing at the computer. Imagine being crippled. At least you still can cry.
Now imagine wanting to burst out in complete fury while physically, the only sign you’re alive is your pulse. Wanting to lash out and scream at the world while your body weighs your soul down like a thick slab of concrete.
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