The White Ceiling

He looked at the white ceiling. He had been lying here for weeks. He didn’t know for how long. His breathing was laboured. At first this rattling sound had irritated him every time he breathed out. Now he hardly noticed it. Sometimes he tried to cough, but his strength failed him. He tried to lift his arms. He could hardly manage. Everything was tired and limp. Only his stomach cramped, endlessly. This pain made him miserable.

The remedy which he was given helped a little, but not enough. Part of the torture remained. A much too large part. He wished to be finally free. Above all from the pain. He looked up at the white ceiling. How long would he still lie here? He imagined how this ceiling opened and the ceiling above that, and the one above that again. He looked into the blue sky. He saw the clouds floating. He imagined how it would be to fly up there and observe the whole world from above. To see his own life from above. He imagined himself flying through space.

At some point he saw a large, open hand. Something lay in the hand. He went closer to the hand in order to see more closely. In the hand lay a man; in the hand lay he himself. He saw himself, how he was lying there, so protected and quiet. He was amazed. He looked around him. There he saw another hand. Like the first, it was open, and its inside formed a gentle hollow.

He saw how the first hand with the man, who was him, moved closer to the other. And he knew it was all right. Now the two hands lay next to each other. Gently and carefully the first hand tilted and let him slide into the other. Then he woke up. He looked around him and saw, that the white ceiling was no longer above him.

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