Sitting in a library years later travelling toward i don't know what but some kind of caring for a living its a strange living, or i don't know the best word for strange there are baristas bringing coffee to tables priests having a muffin together and planning their day the librarian hands out computer pass i research and write an assignment on active third stage managagement but at 1524 yesterday i was handed a 36/40 from a cat 1 CS whose mother had noticed baby not moving as much as normal in the past two days the CTG was non reassuring. awful infact the emergency USS was where the code was called and the little exanguinated baby was pulled from its mothers womb within 15 mins and resusitated with blood and IPPV and this is my job. its strange hey. I'm crying on and off today whenever i think about it. not really a job. i don't know what it is. some kind of living. anyway Annie, i guess we come here to grieve, sometimes for lives we don't even know. so, I'm here.

Mundane

There is no poetry in the mundane and out of sleep awake asleep just a moment of reconciliation that all childhood dreams are gone and nothing but the rules of survival remain all the beauty days gone and nothing remains but the song and a clinical diagnosis of depression. And yet the days go on. And life goes on. And sadness slips away, like everything else every now and awhile. And smiles come and go. And there is healing. But the rawness never completely goes.