Babies - a tribute to my geology career.

Sometimes, I sit on my bed, cross legged, and cry. Yes, men do cry. I shed these acidic invisible tears, the ones that burn the soul. I mourn the death of my baby. My still born Geology career. Dead before it made it out of the womb that is graduate school, dead before it ever took a breath. 

Sometimes, I stupidly try to swim through sorrow and end up drowning in it. Grief erodes common sense, and disrespects mental strength. I mourn the death of my baby. I attempt to come to grips with the loss of my Geology career. Dead the second I held my Master’s degree in my hand, dead before it lived. 

I take two gulps from my glass of beer, but even this perfectly balanced, expertly brewed liquid can't drowse the melancholy. My salvation does not lie at the bottom of a green beer bottle, I double check as I throw the bottle in the bin. If that bin was the graveyard for Geology careers, my baby would be in there, slowly turning to dust, and in two to three hundred million years into coal.

I open the fridge, pull out a container of guava juice and I pour slowly into the just rinsed glass. I open the freezer compartment, I proceed to methodically drop ice cubes into the half full glass. I've chilled my guava, now to find my love, my sweet Bellah.

There she is, poised on that pink thing that I bought her. She looks absolutely majestic. I fire her up and bring her to life. She purrs, I stroke her gently, smoothly down her back. I stretch my long fingers and prepare to begin our little intimidate bedside tango. Bellah, is what I call my laptop, just in case I had lost you.

We dance, rhythmically in tune, matching each other, even pausing simultaneously. It's beautiful, it’s wonderful, it’s liberating, and it’s pure heaven. The creation process, Geology and I never created, we just replicated.

Bellah and I make new babies. Babies that will never die, because they are reborn with every new reader who indulges in them. Babies that are immortal, cast in word and sentence, forever preserved in the memory of my ardent readers. Babies that are incubated by the 30 something subscribers to my blog, breastfed by the throng of Facebook friends, burped by my Twitter followers and gently rocked to sleep by everyone that ever bought a copy of a newspaper just to read the Chronicles of Fly. Babies that can live a million lifetimes in one day.