She got ill
and the illness kept her in bed.
At first, she thought it would pass
But the days kept folding into each other,
slow and heavy,
each one a little quieter than the one before.

The same walls.
The same window.
The same light moving slowly across the ceiling.
Her whole world had become one small room.

Outside, life went on
cars, footsteps, voices, weather
while she lay still,
learning the long language of waiting.

Sometimes she dreamed of the sea.
Of standing barefoot on wet sand,
the wind in her face,
waves opening endlessly before her.

Other times she remembered the mountains
cold air, clouds below her feet,
the bright stillness that made her feel
small in the most beautiful way.

She missed that feeling,
the peace,
the vastness that made
her mind fall silent.
No noise, no rush,
only quietness and calm.

Then, one morning,
she closed her eyes
not to escape, but to see.

At first, there was only darkness.
Then she noticed something,
the darkness had depth.
There was distance.
Between her and the back of her eyelids,
there was space.
Tiny, silent, alive.

She stayed with it.
And slowly, it began to grow
spreading behind her eyes,
in her head
and down through her chest.

And she recognised something familiar.
It was the same quietness and calm
she had once felt in the mountains,
the same vast peace
as when she stood by the sea.

The room was the same,
but inside her, something had opened.
Peace moved through her softly,
like breath through still water.

You can try it too.
Close your eyes now,
and look into the soft darkness behind your eyelids.
Then you might feel it
that quiet distance,
that living space.

It’s always there,
waiting to be noticed,
waiting to set you free
from the noise of your own mind.

Just stay aware of space.
Tomasz