what does it mean to work? is your every day filled with meaning? do you mean to make it to the next day? are your coworkers mean? are hospitals demeaning? or is it all just mean, an average, a lump, a benign thing that takes the excitement of life and death alike?
i don’t know what you do to not be done or to feel less than the one, whatever it is and whoever it isn’t. how did you go on in this unknowing, how did you manage to make it all work out?
i assume the answer will take a while to consider, stress, develop. it will come at night, when you are not ready, when you spent too long preparing in light for just it to find it not found. you will write. you will read. you will rewrite. then it will pass and so will you and what will be left but the undone, the unworked, that which we could never do?
i assume the answer is found after this letter. too bad these are only lifelong sentences.