Midnight. The lights of the hospital car park blink outside my window. My head is heavy with the weight of the medicine I have been given. I should be asleep, but the stinging in my stomach keeps me awake.
On the table next to my bed, a face watches over me, calm, serious, radiant despite the darkness. He is made of paper, and yet he is more real than I ever will be. He is the Healer. The Leader of the Muses. The Shining One.
They say he had a song called the Paean, which healed those who listened to it. The Paean is long gone, of course. But when my voice escapes my lips, broken and so quiet, dying before it even leaves my hospital room, it doesn’t matter. He is there. He hears me. He is Apollon Paean, Apollon Mousagêtes, Apollon Iatros, and his song will soothe me to sleep.
Hallelujah, I sing, because it means praise God and even though the God of Hallelujah is not my God, on this empty night, I will praise mine. There’s a blaze of light in every word, I sing, it doesn’t matter which you heard – I’ll stand before the Lord of Song, with nothing on my lips but Hallelujah…
My eyelids are heavy, the ache in my stomach has dulled. A face golden like the sun bends over me. Sleep, he whispers.
(I’m currently recovering from an operation, which is what inspired this post. Everything went well and it’s nothing serious, but I’m still very tired and nauseous. Prayers and well wishes are appreciated. On a side note, I recorded the song just one day after the operation. I decided to keep it, despite all its flaws, because of its rawness. It is my Paean to Apollon.)