And I was shoved face into nondescript, green garments,
Just another sign of another shedding token of my normality,
Sitting on a wheelchair,
A victim of bitter perception,
Silent glances and boisterous objections.

It perhaps, was a dream,
Titled ‘A Day At Its Absolute Worst’,
Fraught with thousands of unfamiliar, strange faces,
Unmeant empathy and,
Unsolicited painkillers.

Then post-sleep, comes anticipation,
Of it,
Of that,
Of alas- that-mustn’t-be-named,
Of the tenure under concentrated lights
And painstaking crafting of my mindless vessel of a body,
Of finally waking up to a blinding, spinning room,
Of curious crimson stains and cotton-white bandages,
Of reaching out for familiar faces against the odd backdrop,
Against the struggling explosion somewhere inside.

It echoes,
A loud, resonating feeling,
A constant threat,
A relentless grip around my throat.

Did time stop? (Or did I?)
A day,
Not an eternity,
I was told,
Whatever of mine was,
Said otherwise.

As the inside reels,
The outside turns inside,
Puts on a brave face, 
Lies, needs support.

It’s a whole experience, 
No less, 
Stays with you in the ways
Today greets tonight.

How much happened?
Was it even real?