If you give up now, you cannot make a change
And thus your life will be shredded like dust
Like how a bird dies after the dawn,
Your voice no longer speaks. You lie on your bed,
Speechless. Absolutely nothing.
There is nothing, no cure- nothing. Nothing.
Nothing because the stigma, nothing because of the hatred,
Absolutely nothing. No cure, no treatment, nothing.

So you sit, pause, and wonder;
The malaise of man does not rest upon the shoulders of many
But why mine? Why us? Why the thousands of children
Who wait for a cure, then pass away? Why the adults, with absolutely no cure?
What is the point if you are going to circle here and there,
Haplessly thinking about where you are going to end up?
What is the point if you are going to be restrained like the visit before?
What is the point if your voices are going to convince you to dig your skin?

The piano plays the intermezzo.
But you cannot press the pedal. You are too exhausted, too worn out,
Too scared. You ponder upon the notes and the keys,
The detrimental melodies of a dysfunctional melody. Inverted keys, argumented cords.
You imagine yourself at the exactly same place that you stood in the Rosza Centre.
But you remember that, still mentally ill, you stood at the same stage for three years.
Singing with the most respected choirs in Calgary and their musical companions.
In your mind, every day is Ola Gjeilo’s Intermezzo. Every day is the a road to the beginning,
And to the next song. Ongoing. You are the Dreamweaver, weaving dreams of those
Who have passed on and who will be born with it next.

A journey without a cure, sure.
But did it end? No. Absolutely not.
Did the nurses untie you from the restraints?
Yes, they have, and your intermezzo continues.

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