My Skeleton Sobs

 Epigraph

"The body does not falter quietly. It drafts its revolt in tremors, delays, and the sudden silence between intention and action."


–––

The vibration begins again in my right hand. Not tremor. Not fatigue. Something beneath the tendons, beneath the marrow, queuing up for attention. It runs up my arm in pulses that smell of forgotten effort. Months, unrecorded. Weeks unnoticed. Each contraction a small, sharp confession I have ignored.

The room bends, or I bend within it. The floor, the walls, the very air — they calibrate against my failing steps. My leg hesitates at midstride. Ankle signals hesitation, hip mutters in resistance. I am not misstepping; the body is rewriting its own geometry around me.

I clutch the counter. It does not hold me; it responds. The grain murmurs under my palm, a sound of subtle accusation. I am listening too late.

I remember a time when movement was premeditation-free. Muscles obeyed. Joints sang in clean arcs. Spine a cathedral. Now every vertebra measures pain in increments I cannot outrun. Every fiber counts the hours of neglect.

The Collapse Interlude It happens in seconds that feel like years. I bend to pick up a discarded notebook. My left knee hesitates. Spine locks. Gravity negotiates with me like an adversary. Air thickens; vision fragments.

I do not fall. But I am suspended on the cusp of impact — a threshold my mind feels but cannot fully translate. Muscles scream in silent code. Tendons resist. Bones register the cumulative weight of decades.

I straighten. Heart thunders. Breath fractures into intervals. My legs quiver, a broadcast of betrayal to the marrow. I am not broken. Yet.

Weeks accumulate like sediment.

A shoulder spasms mid-reach. Hip calculates angles on stairs. Neck protests the extension of day into night. Spine curves inward silently, folding like wet paper pressed between invisible hands. Marrow aches in rhythm with neglect.

I sit, brace, surrender. Rest is an illusion. Each micro-pain, each tremor, each silent protest compounds. Erosion does not announce itself; it files complaints in the private corridors of the body.

Memory Intrusion I remember carrying my child up flights of stairs. Running across pavements. Reaching instinctively, expecting obedience from flesh. Now I rise from chairs as one exhumes a forgotten self, palms pressing into thighs, praying for mechanical compliance that no longer guarantees safety.

The Mirror Reckoning I catch myself mid-motion. Not the face. The alignment. Forward tilt, rounded shoulders, spine folding inward. Head floats slightly off-centre as if in negotiation with an invisible anchor. Dignity performs itself, rehearsed in silence. I see the slow language of neglect written in vertebrae and sinew.

I make tea. Not for warmth, not for hope. The cup is an object of ritual, a fragile anchor. It does nothing to restore strength. It allows recognition. I am present to my own collapse. Aware. Accountable.

Each sip reminds me: the body’s signals were there all along. Tremors, hesitations, micro-failures — they were whispers I dismissed. They escalate if ignored. They translate into falls, fractures, chronic incapacity.

Tonight, the tremor becomes voice. My skeleton articulates in tension, in instability, in the subtle recalibrations of bones and tendons. I listen fully. Not because it offers redemption. Because ignoring it risks the loss of the person I still inhabit.

–––

These stories aren’t rare.
They’re just rarely told early enough.

Subhealth often hides in endurance.

Such signs are subtle, cumulative, and psychologically intrusive. They unfold over months and years, and ignoring them is to risk not only physical collapse but a creeping existential dread. They may include tremors and hesitation in limbs, micro-falls or near-falls, postural collapse and rounding of the spine, persistent micro-aches and internal tension and gradual loss of strength or coordination

Subhealth is the dialogue before diagnosis —
the body’s early language of self-preservation.

Listening sooner — through regulated light exposure, rest, micro-breaks, and attention to bodily signals — is not weakness. It is survival.

––– 

If this feels familiar, you’re not alone.
What matters most is noticing —
and choosing to listen, before silence deepens.

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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