By Marie-Laure Arsac-Shea
My left arm is on fire. My right arm is a metal rod.
Or so it feels.
But still, my arms move.
The world is grainy. Black and gold dots.
Or so it looks.
But still, I can see.
My feet burn. Every small, slow step must make scorch marks upon the Earth.
Or so it seems.
But still, I can walk.
‘Health’ is forgotten.
Pain is my norm.
But still, I live.
And beauty is my life. The sunlight shines into my dark room. And I remember to love life. And so, still, I will live.
