Soul or body, which disease changes terriblely?
Infected with the new crown in bed these days just encountered the outbreak of the Russian-Ukrainian war, in the Russian-Ukrainian border city of Rostov, I lay on the hospital bed, needles, watching the domestic and foreign media news, so casually record their mood and thoughts, interested everyone can look back.
Soul and body, there is always one to be on the way
Lying in a hospital bed, I heard my friends who came to Stay in Russia say that there were many refugees on the street outside, and there were even people who asked them for money and supplies. My kind friend paid 1,000 rubles (about 100 yuan at the time) to buy milk and diapers for the refugees.
I even got a call calling on me to go on an anti-war march
I asked my Russian grandfather in the next bed what he thought of the current Russo-Ukrainian war, and he said, "I support Russia, I support my own motherland, but Russia is difficult, russia's economy has been choked in the throat, it is a dying man." ”
The body is a demon attached to the soul, constantly forcing the soul to do things that betray the soul for the needs of the body, to sin and to war...
You can't fall asleep every morning at 5 o'clock in the morning – because that's when the nurses start working, drawing blood, giving injections, and taking temperatures. Blood draws and injections are my worst fears, so whenever I get to this point, I don't dare to sleep. I could only keep my ears open and listen to the occasional rapid footsteps outside the corridor, the sound of wheels being pushed, and the coughing sound of one after another. Waiting for the most feared sound of iron plates, quite the "thrill" of sneaking around the computer as a child.
In a place like the hospital, everything is white—white walls, white doors, white cabinets, white sheets, and white needles and white pills from nurses and doctors in white coats. These white things have a special magic that can make a patient who can jump around alive on the outside into a weak patient in the hospital bed.
Whether it is the appearance, taste, or texture of the hospital meal, it cannot be argued that it is a "meal", but more like a colorful oil painting paint contained in a plastic box - red vegetable soup, white rice porridge, yellow bread slices. It is no wonder that in so many biographies of people I have read since childhood, great painters have more or less inevitably gone through the experience of "hospitals", and now I think it is also an "artistic practice". And I was born weak, I knew that I did not have this "artistic" talent, and there was no other way but to comfort myself with "nutrition" and "survival" to inhale. After eating, looking around, the old Russian man in the next bed trembled and held the rice porridge, and he couldn't help but jump out of his mouth, "Proha!"
You and I are only one step away
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