Salt in the Marrow

There’s a silence that hums beneath the studio — not absence, but something waiting to be named. It’s been growing for months, filling the gaps between my breath, between brush and canvas, between pulse and thought.

Once, I could lose hours inside colour. Now, the colours refuse me. They sit dull in their jars, heavy as unspoken truth.

When I lift my arm, it trembles — a tremor not of age but depletion, the kind that begins where light ends. I used to think exhaustion could be cured by sleep. I know better now. Some exhaustion is marrow-deep — the kind rest cannot reach.

The doctor says my blood has forgotten its choreography. Fewer dancers in the circle now. Fewer cells carrying the story of oxygen, of continuation.

It makes sense, in a way. I have been painting loss for years — this time, it simply began painting me back.

Mornings are slow to arrive. The air feels grainy, as if I’m breathing through gauze. When I walk, my heart stutters, uncertain if it still believes in rhythm. I press a hand to my chest and whisper, stay.

Sometimes, small bursts of light edge my vision — not metaphors, just nerves misfiring, signalling their fatigue. Once, they frightened me. Now, I watch them the way one watches snow: silent, temporary, almost beautiful.

Friends ask what’s wrong. I tell them I’m fine. I even smile, careful not to let my lips split — the gums bleed easily now. Fine is easier than explaining that my body is unlearning how to stay.

At night, the brushes lie in a glass jar, their tips hardened from neglect. I stare at them and wonder if they resent me — if I resent them back.

When I paint, the strokes come slower, deliberate. Each one feels like a negotiation — between gravity and will, between wanting to finish and learning to stop.

Sometimes, I smell iron, faint and familiar. Not from the room — from inside me. The blood whispering: remember what I carry for you.

The last lab report sits folded in my drawer. Words like plasma, ratio, abnormal morphology — a language that reads like farewell. The doctor didn’t say it, but I heard it in the pause: this may not get better. It may simply get slower.

I walk home through thin rain. The world feels translucent, seen through milk glass. My breath fogs the air — brief proof that I’m still here.

In the kitchen, I boil water. Not for tea — just to watch it move, alive and purposeless. Steam rises like something departing but reluctant to leave.

I sit on the floor, back to the cupboard, head against my knees. The warmth of the kettle presses faintly into the quiet. My body is failing in increments, but the mind still reaches — for understanding, for beauty, for something that outlives pulse.

I think of my mother’s hands, the way she used to say the soul sits in the blood. If that’s true, then perhaps I’m simply running out of soul.

Still, I write: I am here. I am thinning, but here.

No miracles. No defiance. Just attention. And that, for now, is enough.




–––

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.

He 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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