Coldness is the absence of heat.

Darkness is the absence of light.

So evil is the absence of good.

Are we all born good? Is it our experiences as humans that make us evil? Are we inherently good creatures? Or are we just demented sinners on a perpetually sinking cosmic boat?

“Evil” isn’t a force. Merely the absence of one.

If you listen carefully, you can hear it.

A sombre tune hollowly resonates within the white-washed façade of neatness of this building; the confusing blur, vague synapses of activity. This is purgatory, a place of life, death and everything in-between. A cacophony of scents sounds and sights, that sing loudest when each note is picked out. You are greeted instantaneously by that heady smell- A choking cocktail of sanitizer and cleaning fluid lingers throughout the building, creeping into every little nook and cranny. Its intense sickly odour is omnipresent, only occasionally interrupted by that unmistakeable lunchtime aroma. The low, soothing purr of the air conditioners, as if in joint meditation, washes over you, resonating their mesmeric tones throughout the corridors. Hushed, solemn whispers echo, important-looking men in stark white coats in earnest discussion with each other. Expressions of relief painted the faces of some, profusely thanking the men in white coats, whilst tears streamed down the faces of others.

The atmosphere was plagued with a sense of urgency- the men in coats speaking seemingly incoherently quickly, the click-clack of expensive Italian leather loafers against the gleaming floor, the blur of white, as people purposefully dashed around, the sound of pen being put to paper, the furious, feverish scrawling of notes on paper, doctors & nurses painfully, intensely scrutinizing patients. The rhythmic slamming of doors punctuating the sound waves, each having its own distinct tone, pounding out hard beats like drummers in rock bands. This exigency was contagious, and omnipresent- its tendrils reaching out to you, coercing you into a rush.

Every now and then, an ambulance would announce its arrival; a shrill, ear-piercing call, blaring and whining, like the wailing guitars of rock bands, with ominous puddles of crimson light spilling throughout the entrance. Distant, macabre moans would follow, or in worse cases, a deathly silence.

Glance around and there is more to see.

And listen.

Listen, and there is more to hear.

The chaotic wailing of babies tucked into baskets.

The symphony of monotonous keyboard clicks.

The metallic whirr of trolley wheels sliding down corridors, the sonorous blare & fuzz of televisions singing together, the rip-roll of shutters, the clash and grind of surgical instruments against each other, drowning out the bleak, incessant whining of the music playing in the background, occasionally ruptured by a dreary voice resonating through the public announcement speakers, a swelling, rising cacophony of sounds, melding together into a symphony.

The orchestra of medical machines reaches a grandiose crescendo- the bass, the constant hissing and huffing and puffing of respirators, the shrill, constant beeping of a sea of heart-monitors desperately calling to one another, the silent hisses of IV drips injecting fluid into patients, the grunts and drones emanating from dialysis machines, the clack-clacking of pills in plastic bottles ringing out a monotonous tune, a plethora of alarms and bells going off, desperately calling for help, accompanied by bursts of crimson light, and green waves pulsating, fluctuating regularly in hypnotic motions, mesmeric cycles.

and it stops.

An unnatural instance of silence, in a day of chaos and motion, an instant in the day that often goes unnoticed, and unappreciated.

Everything has stopped.

There is a second of sacred silence, for those who breathe their last breath, for the eyes that grow faraway, for the hearts that pump their final beats, and for a moment of transition from one world to another. A miraculous instant for ones whom fill their lungs with their first breath, cry their first tears and blurt their first sounds. As one story ends, and another begins, a fleeting, transient moment of life and death, like a falter between a heart-beat.

Silence descends, blanketing the hospital, enveloping it and all its inhabitants. Motion grinds to a halt, doctors and nurses finally stop moving. A brief, unequivocal silence overcomes the building as machines break their repetitive cycles, falling still for an instance. There is always a hidden moment like this, a moment of silence and respect, as one life ends, and another begins. These fleeting moments of stasis rarely lasting longer than a glimmer of thought, yet offer a magical interlude of tranquillity in the hectic pace of this hospital.

The whole hospital has stopped.

And this is a pause worth savouring, because the world will soon be complicated again.

Why is the line between magic and madness so fine? The two coexist with one another, counterpoising each other so perfectly.

However, sometimes this line blurs.