I want to write beautifully, but I can't. I read books and everyone writes so beautifully, but then again, none of them have M.E.

Pain remains pain and loneliness remains loneliness. At the very least, I'd like to open the window. My portal to the world outside. But I can't. The world out there is cruel, and my body knows how to protect itself. With shortness of breath, swollen airways, burning pain, weakness and hatred. Everyone thinks

I'm crippled, but aren't I still human? I wonder when they stole that from me.

Yesterday I was still human. I'm sure of it. Today, I'm no longer certain.

Anyway, I keep wondering when they'll finally look. When they'll notice that I'm still alive. The only thing anyone notices is that I no longer pay taxes, I suppose.

But probably not for much longer. Soon there'll finally be a cripple tax. One you have to pay if you want to stay alive. I can't sleep. I'm always awake. But I wonder when the people out there will finally wake up. Sometimes I'd like to throw my window open and scream. But what would be the point? Nobody would hear me. I mean, everyone would hear me, but nobody would hear me.

You know? And I'd pay for it with three days of pain. The world is fair as long as you're still able. Wanting isn't enough. Wanting was never enough. After all, it's still capitalism's finest hour out there.

Sometimes I dream about going outside. Sometimes I dream about running, swimming, laughing. Dreams are unrealistic even for healthy people. But I don't even dream of adventure. No. I dream of getting up and opening my window. Do you understand? I want to write beautifully, but I can't. I don't want to lie.

Human dignity is inviolable. The dignity of cripples isn't. Yesterday I was still human. I remember it perfectly. So I go back to sleep, because in my dreams

I'm still human. I still can. I laugh again. I run again. I climb trees. I'm in the forest. I eat whatever I want. I cuddle my cat. I go to the bathroom whenever I feel like it. I'm still the innocence that society stole from me.

My world in here is small. No, not just small, but narrow. There isn't much here.

No one is here, and there's nothing else I can do. Writing is all I have left, and even that only comes with enormous effort and endless breaks. Break is a good word, actually. I've been on pause for three years now. I can't fast-forward and I can't rewind. Like a broken remote control. Except everything around me keeps moving as if nothing happened. Almost like a superpower. Or rather, a super weakness. Although superpowers are supposed to be rare, extraordinary. But there are so many of us. Far too many. This has been structural for a long time, you know? None of us can keep going anymore, and nobody does anything.

Everyone looks away.

I want to see where the others are. So I open my window after all. But there's nobody there. Only pollen-filled air, eager to invade my body. Fine. Three days of pain, dizziness, breathlessness, nausea and weakness. But it was worth trying. Maybe I'll try again in a few weeks. Maybe there's someone out there.

Someone who can explain to me why everyone looks away, why nobody wants to see me, and why nobody helps. And if not, then I'll just go back to dreaming of a world where I'm allowed to live.