Going to the doctor

Blue neon hospital hallway. A place where hope is halted at the door and faith takes its place. In hospital hallways one finds more faith than in any city church. The doctor is for blips of failing reason a saint materialised as a white robed human.

What has medical science made of us? Us, creatures of complex perception, unable to grasp the permanence of death. Has all this data, facts, statistics, pure knowledge given by hundreds of graveyards, has it all turned out faith into illusion, just as hope does it so well in our godless inner solitude? That would be such a shame.

Medical science makes one feel like there are things to do and postpone the grand finale, and the idea is so, oh … the tickle of my eternity craving mind, that thought is so tantalizing.

“Maybe this doctor will just tell me what to do!”, whisper-shouts that inner middle place, where the gut feels the heart.

The medical experience is very similar to a romantic game: you want to be understood because explaining how you feel is so hard, you want to be accepted because you just don’t fit a model, you need attention and confirmation of that attention because obviously what happens to you is special and unique.

However, we’re mostly wares on the conveyor belt of this health as a service system. Think about it: medicine is about life, yet we use it solely to avoid death. I at least, I feel like a traveller in this ancient life navigation machine. It is filled with knobs and switches, some in the weirdest of places and periodically it requires service. The invisible but robotic arm of self conservation then suddenly removes the machine from life and places it in line injecting in some holographic orifice I can’t otherwise find, fearful patience as both fuel and sedation.

Then the wait. The living hell: the wake procedure of time excision from your brief existence.

What do we get from this illusion exchange? Are we really more healthy or just cells in a standard distribution table?