Living in a surrealist paintings
It was six in the morning and you were staring at the flat screen, awed by the stories of how some young creatures survived the ill fate that could cost their lives. You left the other screen before you untouched, abandoning your responsibility of fast coming deadline, absorbed into the wonder of modern organ transplantation. You hardly believe how five-hour ride since the healthy heart left the body of its host could still be stitched up to another chest; how the new host anticipated the turmoil in the system thanks to the new intruder by shrinking the vein and lessening the blood flow, causing the body to continue living with the least energy needed and efficient work of the organs; and how the tiny, automaton muscle, how the pulsing thing that is no less than a palm of your hand could motorize the whole body of a human by beating no less than 100,000 times nonstop on daily basis.
And your wonder continued by the sophisticated defense system that the brain of a 3-year old boy has, how the grayish matter suspended in the liquid inside the skull and how it could grow bigger rapidly twice the previous size along with the development of the young human; and how they regenerate the cells so fast and fight the disease so fine you felt like there were itsy-bitsy Amazonian warriors inside every body of humans.
Yet you were amazed by how complex and expensive the medicine, the main arrow and crossbows and swords for those Amazonians to fight the unwanted trespassers. The amazement pass on when someone told you that there were high game around government bureaucracies and pharmacy companies stating that the actual cost of the medicine was only 20% of the price tag. There were doctors bribed with studying overseas to get their specialist degrees, or trips around the world, or privilege accommodation including expensive cars along with the drivers and around the town service as long as it took in the highest peak of the season.
It was you and you alone feeling like a filthy damned lucky bitch for never get seriously sick. The worst diseases you had were only menstrual cramps, nasty cold, swollen gum, or back pain that could be soothed with long, good night’s sleep, a lot of vitamin C, orgasm, good food, and laying down on hard surface whereas your best friend had to struggle only to keep breathing every second.
And you reckoned a nice, great guy who had to work hard and play harder only to have food on his table and enjoy the life he had with the least time available even if it meant to manipulate his inner voice, self morality and whatnots. Still, you felt like you have something in common with those characters, to find, somehow, vague similarities with the life you live at the present, to become a hypocrite, to carry on living, to survive minutes by minutes, day by day, whatsoever.
My, oh my. If I were you, I’d be more than happy to be sedated till I drag the last breath and die happily. Fuck life! I want to be dead. Alas, I (don’t want to) have no choice.
Picture taken from here.