The colour of blood



My body is lying on a hospital bed but my spirit is somewhere else. The bed could be in the CICU or in any room, on any floor in the hospital. My unconsciousness is roaming in every direction, up and down stairways, in and out of corridors and rooms. There are numberless other wondering souls like me in this location.

Some of these phantoms have been around for a long time, perhaps at the beginning of this hospital or even earlier. Each one has a story of their own. Everyone’s life is a patchwork with a mixture of a little happiness and sorrow, some mistakes and successes, at times being brave and at other times a coward and occasionally generous, but often selfish.

Out here, there are the vary young to the old, like me. There are many even much older. It’s also a vary mix ethnical community. But what is wonderful about the spirit world is that the difference among us is not evident. In essence, we are all transparent, formless and colourless, except for the colour of our blood. All one sees is a pulsating ocean of red.

We often forget that that was the beginning of the first nine months of our own life, in our mother’s womb; in a sea of blood. At the end of one’s life, we also go back to a universe of red. This vital fluid is perhaps the binding force of our human existence.