A diary about the other side of moving abroad

One by one all of them came. In the first week that I was in the hospital, there was a crowd that I hadn't expected. It was almost like they were looking at a carpet. I was at the mercy of everyone's looks. I still couldn't move and lay mute and motionless in my cocoon. I could only move my eyes and perceive the people who came in. I felt shame. I was lying, sparsely washed and vegetating, in the very same position, which was only changed from time to time by the nursing staff. I felt like I had been bearded, a living corpse. The sight of me caused horror and discomfort. I was pitied. And I realized how uncomfortable I was to look at as a living corpse. The people looking at me were reminded of their own vulnerability. The thought that they themselves could be in my position frightened them. They came in because it was the right thing to do. They condoled with me with flowers and cards and tried to shower me with material so that they would no longer have to see me under the pile of gifts. They looked at me, but didn't see me. That would have been the best gift anyone could have given to me. To break through the isolation and the immense barrier between me and the world and to be able to see me.
For many people, becoming aware of their own vulnerability and seeing their seemingly infinite future terminated was unbearable. They tried to cover up these feelings with customs and things “you just do”. And yet the participation in the game, which everyone seemed to be playing in order to dive back into the forgetting everyday world without guilt, was an absurd theater. The protagonists appeared on stage one after the other, spoke their rehearsed lines, behaved awkwardly and threw meaningless phrases around, only to leave in a panic. And I was the only spectator of this mediocre, at best, farce.
To my astonishment, people I had almost forgotten appeared. Only absurd wealth or a tragedy can attract so many people back into your life who have already evaded your gravitational field. Old schoolmates, fellow students, weeping former lovers, distant relatives. Without exception, everyone, regardless of their status, submitted to the rules of stagecraft. And I, the non-paying spectator, could hardly wait for the final curtain to fall.