Pieces of Thoughts

Just One of Many

I stared at myself at the mirror. Disgusted at how sick I looked. Dark eyebags under my eyes, that might gool some people that they were of lack of sleep but unfortunately this time that wasn't the case. I looked at the book at my nightstand. It's ironic the fact that reading book about sick people makes my own pain a lot less. Easier to ignore. It is like it makes you feel lucky to have all that kind of pain in your life instead of that tragic, hopeless sicknesses that are out there. It makes you feel you aren't the only one that doesn't have the energy to lift a book. And suddenly you feel normal. Like being sick is normal now. And now you belong to the group of sick people in this world. To the 95% population of this world that is sick. And when you come down to it, being healthy is abnormal. It's not my own pain anymore, but it's the earth's pain that is sinking everyone down in sorrow. And then you finish the book. And you realize it is just a fantasy. That those characters never were there to begin with, but your pain is. My headache is. That is of course, until you meet the other 95%.