Blank

Sometimes he just lies and thinks of nothingness. The ultimate meditative state, a blank mind, blank body, blank soul. The existential emptiness of the universe courses round his blood stream, flowing to the tips of his extremities. He is one with human suffering; his heart beats in unity with the hungry, his lungs deflate with the last breath of the dying. Stillness overwhelms. He doesn't flinch as the screams pierce his ears, their desperate pleas for solace unable to penetrate his consciousness.
The machines beep periodically, signaling the end of the infusion. He needs to press the call bell but his paralysed body wont allow it. With all the effort in the empty vessel he once knew as a body, he attempts to produce some kind of audible sound from his dry, cracked lips. But his labours are in vain. His most prized tool now a functionless facet on his face; it used to spout beautiful poetic melodies in the company of women who gazed up adoringly.
The control centre refuses point blank to send the signals he needs.
Frustration bubbles and brews, trapped in his skin with no outlet with which to spew out.
The machine beeps and his expressionless eyes portray no signs of the sadness within. He takes a breath and closes the lids. He falls back into the ultimate meditative state, a blank mind, a blank body, a blank soul. He just thinks of nothingness.

Written by an Elf x