Coma

The first thing that interrupts the eternal and lonely darkness, is touch.

She doesn't know how or why, or even how long it's been since she's last had any amount of sensation in any part of her body. The only thing she knows, is that she is laying on a bed. The bed is hard, the sheets rough, the blankets rough. The clothing she wears is stiff and uncomfortable. There is something plastic on her face and in her throat.

She would say that all of this combined would be a terrible existence, if it wasn't for the pleasant burning in her left hand. If she were to be forced to describe it, she would say that it felt like her hand was hovering over a stove top burner on its lowest setting, or that her hand was resting on a large LED light.

It's pleasant. It's distracting.

She soon comes to live for the moments that the fire is in her hands. Sometimes, she notes with interest, the fire moves up her arm, and sometimes to her face, but it typically stays on her hand.

It almost reminds her of childhood dreams come to pass.

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It is during one of the plagues of agonizing nothingness, that she comes to a horrid realization.

She doesn't know who she is.

She doesn't know where she is, how she knows the things that she knows, all she knows, is that she's utterly alone, locked in the vast unseeing cavern.

Has she been there for so long, that she's forgotten who she is?

Or, is she nothing?

Is she in the process of being created, and because of this, she has no identity?

Who is she?

Was she even real?

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The next sensation she is greeted with is smell.

The acrid scent of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol assaults her nose at every turn. Sometimes there is a small break in the monotony with flowery scents and overpowering colognes, but, overall, the acidic smell of cleanliness burns at her lungs.

The fire has returned, and with it, a subtly delicious scent that she knows she needs more of. It smells of rain, and old books and with the smallest hint of campfire smoke—how fitting—it becomes another distraction of the painful monotony.

Again, she yearns for and craves the fire.

She is sure it will be her eventual salvation.

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Locked in her own personal hell, she decides to become a philosopher.

Is loneliness subjective? Or, is it something that, given the right definition, everyone can fit into a perfect box, and it's the same for everyone?

Or, is it different for everyone?

Is one person truly alone, if they don't feel alone, even if they are the only person around? And, if that is the true definition of loneliness in practice, how can people feel utterly and completely alone while surrounded by those whom they call friends?

Is it this changing definition that causes mental health issues?

Is this why people who harm themselves because they feel so alone are never understood?

It is in her darkness, that she decides philosophy isn't for her.

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