de l'encre au bout des doigts

There are fleeting sounds and smells, a vague remembrance of self. The mind adrift, nothing holding to the present. Hands, mostly gentle even if sometimes not, the rustle of new sheets and the persistence of machines.
Sun and lavender through the windows.
It is fine to remain semi-conscious, afloat and in between. Lurking in the shadows, the menace of memories and understanding.
Time seeps through unattended. This cannot be forever, yet just for now it is enough. Being alive, evading the pain, enabling the body to heal and the mind to rest. Every breath moving away from the darkness, all the while bringing closer by the seconds the moment when wokedness will not be evaded further.