Seemingly the worse I feel the more productive I become.
It's not as if I have this sudden foreboding dread that I will die and leave so much unfinished (I'm planning on leaving a massive inbox of things to take care of after said death anyway) but perhaps it is this need to keep my mind occupied.
Pain, be it physical or mental, is persistent.
So just a little bit can sometimes be made better by working, being creative, finding something...someplace....somewhere to find simple joys.
Twelve hours at the gameshop, with a mixture of tournament Magic play, running the counter and sorting.
I'm not sure what 'average' people do on their weekends but it's not at a gameshop and I feel sad for them. Especially for that Christian minority who refuse to frequent anyplace that is 'un-christian'...which is a silly notion in and of itself.
Point being, there is therapy and relief in finding somewhere besides this room I live in and my mind which can become a prison in and of itself. I've spent hundreds of hours sick and stuck both in this bed and inside of my mind.
The more I find reasons to go out, to meet people, to see people, to help people and love them...the less reasons I find to just stay here and victimize myself further with isolation.
Strange how illness repeats.
But...as the song does say "hope still flies"