I never felt this alive in my life.

At twenty-six, I think that I am at the top. I can feel every pulse of my veins, every beat of my heart. My neurons are heightened and I everything that pass me by crawl up my skin.

            I am at the pinnacle of my world. My fat-free world. My alcohol-free world. My nicotine-free world. My germ-free, dust-free world.

            I, daresay, love this state more than my grilled-tofu-organic-fat-free-milkshake Saturday nights. I treasure this more than the imported king size feather bed, topped with hand woven, soft cotton sheets  I’d switch the euphoric feeling the asthma inhaler gives me for this docile state any day.

            I never thought that there was something lacking. I always thought that I had a fool proof plan. It was all perfect. Sickness would never penetrate the fort I built, sickness never did.

            I thought I was invincible.

            But I am not.

            A fractured skull, twelve cracked ribs, shattered hip, soon-to-be amputated legs and hundreds of ripped muscles, tendons and ligaments combined.

            That is what I lived for.

            Sixteen years of aerobic routines. Ten years of body building. Eight years of veggie diet. Five years of herbal medicines. Four years of vitamin supplements. Two years of tai-chi.

            All for this.

            A lanky, run-off-the-mill, single hospital bed. Liquidized food being injected directly in my veins. A used machine to help me breathe and another to regulate my thriving heart. Clinically made medicine being forced down a tube connected to my esophagus.

            I became a human stuffed with preservatives, unable to live longer without chemicals, unable to exist without rotting.

            But I am not complaining. As a matter of fact, I love every second of it.

            This is the quintessence of my monotonous life.

            This is the part where I learned to let go.

            This is where my life starts.