Some days all I want to do when I get home is have a hot bath, full of delightful smelling substances and wrap myself in my silly fluffy dressing gown and lie on my bed and give myself up to dreaming. Not nightmarish dreams, like sometimes the days I face become, but satisfying, scintillating dreams.
Of lying on a beach with the sound of waves crashing onto rocks, birds flying, soaring freely, peacefully.
Where death is not a daily enemy to be fought and defeated, or a friend to be grasped lovingly, but part of nature that comes when it will.
But my dreams don't come.
Thoughts crowd in and take their place, of the daily toil to help those who can no longer help themselves.
It tires me, drains me.
And as, once again, the last battle for another is lost, I sit and think and wish I could dream myself away, not forever, but just to a temporary rest, a safe haven, a cove of contentment and calm.
And that when I came back, some of these battles would be won.