On carrying a kind heart

I do not look at them, the patients. I let my line of sight skim over them. I let the forlorn faces blur into the indistinct background. I ignore the bandages and IV lines, the grimy tiles of the floor, the flecks of blood not yet cleaned on the scuffed floor.

I do my work and I am polite but some mistake manners for servility. I am anything but that. I am earnest to the unsuspecting eye but really I am not. I am sincere though and I try to be kind to everyone. I delight in smiling at strangers, I delight in treating people like the human souls that they are. Other than that? I hate the hours. The inconsiderate circumstance of being overworked. I like service but I don't wish to be forced into it. It's unfortunate. Some people are helpful and some aren't. I despair when I'm subjected to inconsideration. 

There is enough stress and anxiety in a building full of sick people. Why go the extra mile to trouble a seeking soul?

I do not understand. 

It is 2 am and I am too tired for sleep. Exhaustion bleeds over, turns into anxiety that become unpleasant dreams. 

Struggle. This is struggle. I carry my weight and hope my heart withstands the trials of dispassion.