What would you say if I came up to you and said, “I want to breathe again.”
I think I would blink for several moments before answering. Obviously you wouldn’t be making sense. In order to say what you said you had to breathe. Air had to come into your lunges and come out. You can just not breathe. I would asked, “What do you mean?”
“I want to breathe.” I would say again.
I think confusion would sweep me over. I can’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. Obviously, you are breathing! Again, I would ask, “What do you mean?”
I would laugh for a moment. “Silly,” I’d say in reply. “I can breathe from my mouth, but not my nose.”
“Oh.” My reply would follow shortly.
But then I would continue. “I want to breathe from my nose. I can’t sleep at night. I want to breathe. Why must sickness prevent me from something I obviously want and desire greatly. Also, my body is good at letting me breathe from my nose, normally. I’m used to it. I don’t like using my mouth, I wake up with a hurting throat.”
I’d probably just stare at you for several moments. Taking all your words in. Then when I know my time for silence has ended, I’ll say, “Your nose is only a small part of you. A tiny little small part of you. Yet–it keeps you up at night. Restless, you’re restless because you can’t sleep.”
“Hm.” I’ll look at you confused. “That still doesn’t help me breathe.”
“Time will,” I reply. “Time will help you breathe. Just like time shows you the importance of your body.”
I’ll pause in confusion, again.
“Each part of you is important. Never forget. Each part.” I’ll say with a sly smile. “Each part.”