The Final Set

My definition of regret is about to be overwritten with my definition of redemption. The feeling when the concert tickets was handed to me, just hit me again and now, it’s just starting to set in. More then the want, need, and sheer tenacity to be there was the absolutely overwhelming feeling of ecstasy as I count the few remaining hours to an event which I feel, is my rightful place to stand and bear witness. The feeling of euphoria in anticipation is making me miss keyboard strokes and clouding my unconscious coherence to write, perhaps, in response to my perceived utter futility in trying to contain this emotion into verse. And so in my final words, come hell and high water, I make my pilgrimage to the Final set.

Sickandtiredofthiss

To whom it may concern:

Nursing is not a job. Contrary to definition, though you are compensated for your “services”, every after Eight hour shift, it takes something from you and you leave something behind that neither worldly honor nor material gain can ever replace. Tending to the sick and dying is not a job. No suffix to a name can ever quantify the feeling of bearing the suffering of others nor the forced apathy of the sound of the last heartbeat and the sound of life itself exhumed in a final breath. Calling Nursing a mere profession is belittling the suffering and mortality of humanity itself. It is foremost a choice, and a choice not made lightly on the basis of compassion, empathy, or even greed and ambition, things that youth, ignorance, inexperience, and impatience that often lead to another death. You may not have pulled the trigger, but you might as well have been holding the gun. And so with that, I am going to make that choice, when I am ready and not any other time, otherwise.