Time spent in the hospital, it teaches you things.

For example:

There is a certain impass reached between nurses and their patients. Theirs is the difference between feeling and doing. Between emotion and form.

Also:

We dream ourselves medically advanced and yet sick patients stretch out on stretchers, lining hospital hallways, waiting for rooms to empty out.

For someone to die. Someone else to heal and head home. Such is the difference between precision and reality.

We shake our heads in dismay. We say, “This is unbelievable, the system is broken.” But we join the queue. Spend long hours waiting like everybody else.

Surrender to the difference between perfection and humanity.

It seems to me now, at five o clock on a Tuesday morning. On a new day dawned after a long night spent standing still by her side. Watching chaos whirl around us in one million cacophonous intersections of incessant beeps and bed rolls. That all these symphonic routines are pointed at obscuring a single obvious aspect of our lives: the unavoidable fragility of the human form. The helplessness of our collective condition.