The Toll of Purpose

Exhausted. That was the abiding sentiment as I closed the final patient file of the day. My hand brushed against my bag with the air of a man signing his own eviction, and I set off, making my way out of the consulting room. I trudged forward as though bearing my own coffin, lost in thought.

The day had been fruitful. Those who arrived in pain departed unburdened, and those who had lost their sense of purpose returned home as if waving to the sea — only to find the sea waving back. And yet, why was I so utterly spent? Perhaps my hands ached, robbing me of action. Perhaps I granted myself the right to claim the prize — the heavy trophy — of one who had made a difference.

But none of it truly mattered. Sometimes, weariness alone suffices — a quiet reminder of life passing by. After all, every mark left upon the world carves its consequence into the skin.

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