Still alive, still writing · 8:00pm
I won't write a column here because not too many people read this, so I'll make it short: I've been suffering from a writing block for god knows how long, and I recently started to write again. Here's a little fragment to show you how much I improved after all this time (keep in mind this isn't edited in any way; it's still a draft).
I blinked a few times, trying to recognize my surroundings. A pair of white, washed curtains blocked my view, leaving only an open spot in front of me to stare at. The green, washed away metallic walls gave me a feeling of safety and fear, fear of not understanding where I was, what happened, or who had brought me here.
The bed I was lying on was a bit rusty and barely fit my size, but overall pretty clean; someone had taken good care of it. I glanced upon my now bandaged body, wrapped up like a Christmas present, with the bandages turning red as they proved unable to contain all my blood. My throat was dry and damaged, as if I had swallowed the whole San Palomino Desert. I could barely move my right arm without wincing in pain from what I imagined would be a bone fracture. If I could see my x ray, it would probably show up like a million piece puzzle. The other one was in a better shape, though it was hooked up with a catheter and intra venous. Most people in these situations would simply rip out everything from their body, but I knew better than that. This wasn’t the first time I woke up in a strange room attached to something, nor would it be the last.