Hospital Diaries Pt. I
The month I stopped moving, literally.
I haven’t left this hospital, or even felt the air through an open window, in 25 days. Through double-paned glass, I watch muted assembly lines of cars roll down the street like I’m watching a game of Frogger. As quickly as they emerge, they disappear behind ominous condos, each displaying a grid of windows and balconies offering glimpses into private worlds.
I feel like James Stewart in Rear Window—observing people outside for daily entertainment. A woman in the corner suite on the third floor of one building vacuums. A man two balconies above her is in his own imaginary (or virtual?) kickboxing class, punching the air in a repetitive sequence.
At ground level, a cyclist zips by a jogger making their way down the block. I close my eyes and try to imagine the crisp fall air (or winter air—how cold is it outside?) hitting the back of my throat upon each inhale, but I already forget the sensation. I took each outdoor breath for granted.