![image.png](https://files.peakd.com/file/peakd-hive/sarashew/23tbiE6qaPza3skesGXCv4PUv6c4rxXst3b8pZXZE8MDAqx9iT81Gy6XdnVq2u55yvzgG.png)


Have you ever felt the urge to write something intense enough to cause pain? Urges like this are fetal enough to kill the mind. The words seem to find its own flow without glancing back to the shell it came from, they build an everlasting fountain, deep enough to dry you out from existence. I have this similar kind of urge to write about hospitals for some reason and no matter what I do, the thought is born like a parasite in the subconscious part of my mind, refusing to give in to the resistance.  

During the short span of life, it seems like too much time is wasted on these hospital corridors, waiting for something to happen. I don’t exactly know when the pattern first started to set in, but slowly but surely one day the feeling of suffocation turned into a sense of belonging. Each corridor portrays thousands of untold stories, tangled with the illusion of time, never to be spoken of to the living again and among those vast oceans full of memories, my present felt like the only one constant equation that managed to float around the surface after years of hostility.  

I won’t particularly admit to having a fragile body, sensitive enough to die at any moment, but the motion of time does seem to indicate the possibility. Sometimes it feels like this body will end me before I can even have the chance to end myself. But at least now I have the comfort of the familiar acidic scent that lurks around every hospital corridor. They guide me to certain places one should not wish to go. But the scared feeling I used to have as a child was washed away by the pattern of life and somehow I became one with the melodic flow of sickness. 

The most common thing one can do during any hospital visit is to wait, time runs in slow pitch with each second having its own ocean full of weight. The familiarity of these people's actions feels rather natural, a feeling one can only achieve through years of silent observation. The clock starts ticking the moment one reaches the final destination, either the front desk of receptions, doctors chamber, empty corridor, cafeteria or bedside of some known or unknown individuals. An uneasy feeling starts to creep out from the depth of one's subconscious mind and the circle of the wait takes its turn to pull the trigger. 

The surroundings of a crowded waiting room is much more different than the empty one. Although crowded, the scenario has this profound image of life, floating around aimlessly with many obstacles, but somehow people drowning in their own misery is much more preferable to witness than stuck in a vacant room with nothing but the reflection of your own imaginations. 

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