There was not even a single instance I fell in love with hospitals. Not even those hotel-looking ones. There’s no feeling at all, not even a bit.
Hospitals equate sad memories. I have concluded early on that it is a place of irony. It is where hope and despair exists at the same time, where there’s both too much and nothing to feel, where tears are either of joy or grief, and where life and death co-exists.
I have acknowledged these ironies years back, but I still have trouble understanding how these ideas exist together as if it is normal, as if it is life’s only and remaining plot. It is as if the only colors visible through the eyes are white, grey and black – where gray is no longer an interesting space where dark and light collide, but a dimension of confusion and uncertainty.
It is simply where dark clouds always hover.