trainspotting...

How familiar you feel to me,

sleeping next to you like curling up with my favourite book,

your smell, the pages as I flip through,

your eyes, the words piercing my soul,

your body, the rhythmic pentameter that rocks me to sleep,

safe, happy, your ending ever changing in meaning,

your beginning inspiring me,

giving me courage I’d forgotten long ago...

I stroke your spine and marvel at your perfect prose.

It’s not a job, it’s who we are.
And we learn to not put ourselves first
Ever.
That’s why I have to go.
Why I’m always going.
Nothing is more important than this,
at least not now, at least not to us.
Sure, we may look back in jaded nihilism at the things we once believed in.
The things we sacrifice and people we lose for our careers;
what drives us?
There is no redemption at the end of the religion of science.
There are no conclusions to our experiments;
no hypotheses to verify,
to venerate.
We are only worshipping false perceptions of Truth.

In the end, isn’t that all anyone ever worships?

We are all martyrs,
sacrificing everything for our one, true God.
And our patients’ hearts still stop contracting,
their lungs collapse,
their bodies fail,
the waiting rooms are still filled with people searching for miracles,
we hand out unanswered prayers like communion wafers.
And they still die.I'm sorry, we did everything that we could...
When will my everything ever be enough?

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