Friday, July 16, 2010

Tornadoes in Slow Motion

I always hated hospitals.
     Hospitals are where strong men moan. Hospitals are where everyone passes you by while you are sobbing rendering you invisible for the whole scene is a cliché. Hospitals are where doctors’ ears grow used to screams of pain. Hospitals are where some die with foreign hand in their innards.  
      I pushed my head against the wall tightly closing my eyes as they became too weary with the effort of staring at nothingness. Images kept on pushing themselves into my mind. I distracted myself following random trains of thought having railways melting into each other until I was led to the very one I had been a voiding.
   There is this point that stands as a red line; marking the end of life and the beginning of life as you never knew it. Some call it “turning point” perhaps because it turns everything upside down or maybe because it manages to turn people into other people. Life before it becomes a mere fancy you torture yourself trying to be alive in itــــa  world that stopped being; and after it, a nightmare you cannot accept that now, it’s way more real than you are.
     The atmosphere of unknowingly waiting almost suffocated me. Expectations are the inexistent shapes your eyes form in the dark. Believing they are true will only make you fall as you reach out to touch them. I never allowed myself to hope; my pain was doubled when it all turned out to be illusion; what came after was like watching tornadoes in slow motion. Deflecting myself from all that was impossible; you could hardly avoid what’s within you.
  No matter how much you prepare yourself, forming mental images, it always gives you this fierce shiver running down your spine; sometimes, like a punch in your. I took a glimpse of other people I vaguely knew trying to get in too. This was when I discovered the true horridness of illness. It bereaves you  from your identity until you become an extension to it, a shadow to its ugly face. People visit, not because of  ‘you’ but because ‘you are sick’ . All those who are sick, can be nothing more than sick people you ought to petty; you ought to look at to make you feel better about yourself.


  1. wow. those last couple lines are pretty harsh...hoping i never end up alone int he hospital...always makes me think of my mortality though...

  2. I totally felt the emotions of the piece and I agree with brian about the last lines. Great writing as always

  3. I loathe hospitals. Too many bad memories of them as a child. But despite my disliking them, I loved this post. You're amazing at capturing emotion and making the reader feel something as they read.

  4. Your writing is so raw, filled with honesty. I don't think all people feel pity, most are truly concerned for your well being.
    Have a good weekend.....:-) Hugs

  5. * watching tornadoes in slow motion.*

    hey WOMAN,
    You have NO idea how much this has made me cry.
    I've seen myself again there, lived that experience again there, seen my brother being not 'he' but 'he is ill'...there... Yes, I also do hate hospitals in that very sense.
    You've really pictured and captured the scene and the feeling to the utmost dear artist-friend-MAHA


  6. Piercing. Simply piercing.
    I feel sort of out of place with asking you to come and visit...

    ~The O’Flannery Boys~

    Its light hearted. I hope when your frame of mind is open you will.

    For now, I just want you to know there are some really good and caring thoughts coming your way.

  7. you and i share a common thread here, a dread of hospitals! simply stepping inside of one i can almost feel my lifeblood ebbing slowly away from me...
    how you can manage such passion in your writing about such a sad place really is amazing, maha :)

  8. MAHA, this post had a different influence on me. When I go to hospital it is usually to help someone, not to "visit".

    Often, who I might "visit" is someone I never did visit before--just friends...but they get sick, so I VISIT?

    It's like: "Why did I not tell my father that I loved him while he was alive? Now he is gone 32 years, and I want to tell him, I LOVE YOU, POPPA???" Hmmmmmmmm!

    MAHA, you are the writer's writer here. I still have the trouble "seeing" you as a fifteen-year-old girl. You write like a very well-educated adult



    the deadline to vote for poets is Sunday...
    one last chance,
    you gain one vote for yourself when you vote 4 others,
    simply reminder, ignore if you dislike it.

    u r nominated.

  10. Hospitals are so sad and empty-but full of so many people!

    This was amazing.