Awaiting your Florence Nightingale...

Imagine that you, along with the whole world, are sitting on individual sickbeds awaiting the nurse. A nurse's job is to take care of those who lay bedridden within the expanse of the hospital and when she misses her hourly check, you are uncomfortable to say the least. Like so, most of us go through the motions of life in a spotless domain as tiresome and pedantic as the hospital walls. Infected by a plague that has seeped into the populace, we see that only precious few can get better for they possess an antibody, natural or acquired, to cure themselves. Festering and convulsing, they come out in such times of distress, terror and unbearable boredom, to fight what the body and soul cannot handle. Unlike any other hospital, each and every patient comes with their own medical supplies. You are all prepared with your vials and beakers full of medicine, waiting for relief. A line of nurses come and pour vials of ink and paint, that the patient has accumulated over the years, over the bitter wounds and see that not only is it anti-septic but also the perfect cure to their woes. The others who presented glass vials of pure gold and emeralds, sadly, remained as void as before. The medicine was not right and it was almost like trying to quench a thirst for water with champagne.
                                                                                          In time, these patients learnt to accept that not all people are meant to be truly healthy. The pink of health, was an open yet guarded clique who were blessed with something out of this world. The fated patients realized that the perfect assembly of mind, body and soul will remain unfairly and unfortunately, elusive to a majority. An understanding loomed over them that there must be the ones affected by sickness to recognize the brilliance of those who are in the prime of life.