Occasionally I manage to break away from my dull contemplations of the ceiling and, in these moments of taciturn lucidity, I wonder what if would feel like to have a soul buried in my chest. Would it be heavy, like a rock nestled underneath my sternum, or would it feel like sea foam filing my lungs? Maybe it would be uncomfortable pressure, or maybe something more akin to a sharp pain every time I inhale.

How much does a human soul weigh?

I’m not so sure anymore.

I’m not so sure of anything anymore.

I’m not even sure of the color of the wall, the one that has been my constant companion over the past six years, but I think it’s white - or ivory or cream or maybe even taupe, but this is more of an inference than a fact that rests solidly in my mind. What other color would a wall be inside of a hospital?

Sometimes, when I’m the closest to consciousness that I ever get, I can hear the rustle of the sheets in the room next to mine and the moist, rasping coughs of the patients that fill this ward.

There’s a nurse who, every time she comes into change my IV or check the dilation of my pupils or clean my bedpans, whistles the Legend of Zelda theme song. On extended stays, when she runs out of melodies to whistle, she likes to tap out the beats on the bed frame or chatter on about her shallow love life. She’s got a high, twittering voice that would make me nauseous if I could summon the effort to feel anything beside a lingering sense of exhaustion.