There can be no creation without destruction, just as there can be no destruction without creation.
I stood there. The balcony, six floors up, where the wind moved against my body in a gentle current. Around me stretched the horizon of the sky, a cityscape ocean stretching kilometer after kilometer. Navy was the sky, smeared with dark plumes of cloud, few stars twinkling against the backdrop. It was a stark comparison to where I had been just a few weeks before. Pale walls covered in scars, the stories they could tell, a fleeting thought; the blurred lines, the needles, the blood pressure cuff constricting. Machines around me singing harmonious screeches, signaling tachycardiac heart rates and dipping oxygen saturation levels. In layman’s terms, my body – one of the many in that intensive care unit – had been fighting. Had I been conscious enough, perhaps I would have done something. Anything to prevent recovering from what had landed me in that hospital bed, so far from home, in the first place. Perhaps I’d have wrapped the cords around me, suffocating, the machines screaming as my vision blurred and lips blue; the opportunities could have been endless, had I been able to keep my eyes open for more than a split second. I hadn’t. I survived. I suppose if there’s any time to start telling my story, I’d say we could just as well start here.
Kilayla is an author from Canada. She has written two poetry collections and two fiction novels by the age of 25. She also lives with severe, persistent mental illness. She is a digital illustrator in her spare time.