It's a reminder of mortality, of the fragile, fragile state of our existence. That no matter the power of love, art, beauty, discovery, or will, if you get sick, you're sick. You can look at the receptionist all you want: she's feeling well today, and you're not. Such is the unfortunate state of the physical form.
It's not even the sterile environment. In this place, it's how nice and comfortable everything is. It's like the room is trying to distract you from the reality and potential severity of where you are and why you're there. However, I understand why. It's not like I can live dwelling on things like this. It's a necessity to provide pretty paintings, flowers, and nice patterned seats for people to...
A depressed me would say "cling to". Right now, I'll just say "enjoy".
Perhaps this stems from the fact that I almost never went to the doctor as I grew up. To get shots, sure, but the dentist was the only regular visit (and I still get a toy when I go, though I now have to say it's for my sister). It usually is, though. I don't need another bouncy ball.
I've never been inoculated against tragedy, you know. It's not like I'm asking for it, though. (Though, in the colloquial sense, I sure am...)
There's more to say, but I'm procrastinating as it is.
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