A thought. . . (2)
Standing at the elevators, I hear a voice. 
I turn and see a man picking up his coffee off the counter at a little cafe in the building.
As he exits the cafe, his eyes meet mine for a brief and he looks down.
His hand reaches out to a door handle but he stops. 
He stares at the sign that says "Cancer Center".
It's a women's cancer center, so I know it isn't he who may possibly have the disease.  But I'm sure he wishes he was the one who had it.
There's a room in that place where one can go to "die in comfort" so to say. 
How do you die in comfort?
The man sips his coffee; his lips curl as the liquid must be too hot.
He turns and walks away.  His head bobs up and down and his shoulders slump as if he can't hold anything else.
My heart breaks; sure, it sounds like a cheap metaphor, but the pain hit me deep. 
I look down at a folder I'm carrying; inside, it contains paperwork with numbers that are in reality meaningless.  Wasted time used to create wasted numbers. 
My heart breaks because this is what my time has been wasted on.
By the time I overcome my own shame of caring about numbers so much, I look up and the man is gone.  I will never see him again but can only hold faith that his pain becomes strength and her passing becomes closure for life.

Life isn't measured in numbers and material, but within life itself. 

WAN   WAN wrote
on 6/18/2009 9:00:25 AM
its really true. love the last lines

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writing JimWisneski
I write because it's how I speak to the world.
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