Wednesday, February 15, 2017


These pages...I am pretty sure I won't forget any time soon.

I was nervously drawing in a midnight waiting room, trying not to think.

A perhaps 5-year-old little boy, who had been resting beside me moments ago while being anxiously watched over by his father, who refused to sit but who would intermittently dab a tissue on his son's head, was now wailing like he was being tortured at death's door just feet from me in the room they soon lead him into.

I started crying. I had been crying while the kid was passed out next to me. You can't help but think. I wished there was something I could do to help.

The howling cries from within the room stopped eventually. Soon enough the boy came out, asleep in his father's arms, and they went home.

It felt like forever before they finally called me up. They said everything was ok.

I started crying again. They thought I didn't understand, and I had to explain that I did. It's ok. Good.

I can only think of one other time I've felt so overwhelmed.

They said it was stress.

Why should I be stressed?

Not normal,


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