Aida Zabidi
What was it about this sickness of the mind that seemed to transmit itself in a variety or physical manifestations? 
 
It was in the wan face, the tired, dead eyes. 
 
Sleep would become unrestful, appetite would be suppressed.
 
There was no one symptom, just a vague collection of pains and aches that established themselves in a variety of way. Things would never be the way they were, or there would always be some new pain, some new ailment that would be debilitating to their daily activities. 
 
Their physicians would umm and ahh and investigate for a cause of these ailments, but their investigations would never bear fruit, and they would be forced to concede to the bitter truth, that the mind had so thoroughly convinced the physical self about it’s own weaknesses that it had all but incapacitated itself. 
 
It was all in the mind, these poor sufferers. 
 
May the find the strength and support to lift these blocks.
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