Calcium Dreams

Through the Skeleton’s Eyes

I listen through the bones. Beneath the hum of blood and the pulse of marrow, there is a patient, crystalline ledger — keeping track of every strain, every tremor, every step I have carried too long. It does not forgive; it does not forget. It only records.

My arms quiver when lifted. Not exhaustion, not sleep-deprivation, but marrow-deep fatigue, the kind that softens the pulse and weighs the bones with invisible ink. Once, I lost myself in colour, hours vanishing in the sweep of brush. Now the pigments resist me, waiting for a hand steady enough to honour them without shaking.

The doctor’s voice arrives as if echoing inside the bones themselves: “Your skeletal density is declining. Microfractures are forming. Your marrow is fatigued. These signals are subtle, but if ignored, fragility will follow — and the risk of serious compromise increases over time.”

I touch my collarbone. It feels heavier than memory allows. Every vertebra is a ledger; each step is measured, each movement negotiated with a body slowly reminding me of its limits.

There is a cost to structure. My skeleton remembers every weight carried, every choice ignored, every silent concession to endurance. I follow those traces — calcium dreams, the pale geometry of holding on too long.

No invention. Only the body rehearsing its own archaeology. No mercy. Only the truth of endurance made visible beneath the skin’s quiet dust.

Begin where the bone begins to speak.

Daily Ledger

Morning begins with the slow ceremony of standing. The bones negotiate. A soft pulse travels up the shins before the day allows itself to start. In the bathroom mirror, the face looks almost translucent, light sliding through it like water through thin glass. I whisper good morning to the skeleton beneath, as if courtesy might keep it loyal.

Downstairs the kettle hums. The mug feels heavier than yesterday. When I tilt it, a fine tremor runs through the wrist — a brief, private warning. I rest the cup on the table and wait for the world to steady. The house keeps its silence, that thick domestic hush between heartbeat and hum.

There are things I no longer lift: the laundry basket, the suitcase on the top shelf. The body remembers weight long after it has put it down. Some evenings I trace the faint swell of an old fracture along the collarbone and feel a language trying to return. Calcium speaks in residue, not sound.

Once, a letter from the clinic arrived; I left it unopened. The envelope is still pinned to the fridge behind a photograph of my mother at the seaside. Her shoulders turned towards the light, her smile half-hidden. She taught me endurance disguised as kindness. I have carried that lesson in every vertebra.

At night, I catalogue small disappearances: height, appetite, patience. Dreams come chalk-white and slow. Sometimes I wake certain that my ribs are a xylophone of memory, each note a year I kept going out of duty. Other times, there’s only warmth, a faint shimmer where loss has become permission.

I open windows even in winter. The air enters sharp, medicinal, exact. It reminds the lungs of work, the joints of purpose. Cold teaches honesty — what bends, what refuses.

Once I thought decay was defeat. Now I think of it as translation. The body turning experience into element, self into sediment. Each breath a tiny act of archaeology.

In the kitchen light, the dust glows gold. I lift my hand and the motes follow the movement, briefly radiant before they fall. It is enough — to witness, to hold, to release.

–––

Warnings Whispered


These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.
Most decline begins in silence —
a skipped check-up, a cough you dismiss, a breath you pretend is fine.

She didn’t need saving.
Just a warning sooner.

––– Pause Here –––

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
Most illness doesn’t start with a bang.
It starts when silence becomes habit.

Lingzhi isn’t a miracle.
It’s a habit.
A quiet, daily way to care for the body —
before silence becomes suffering.

Advisory
Lingzhi is a traditional food, long used to support balance and general well-being.
It is not intended to diagnose, treat, cure or prevent any disease.
Individuals with existing medical conditions or those taking medication should consult a qualified healthcare professional before use. 


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