Saturday, 11 October 2008
Tired bones and muscles crawl and cry beneath the skin like mewly babies seeking comfort, the comfort of mattress and motionless, swaddling and sleep. But after a long night's sleep more isn't feasible. The debt must be paid off in installments.
Not the best metaphor, as the alarmed tones of financial crisis hover round my dreams. Having managed to acquire very little in the way of money, stuff or sensations of security, never mind its reality, I've not much to lose, myself. And I grieved for the world already, don't know that I grieve more now. But fear is a wearing climate to live in.
Up then, warm the bones by moving, absorb the mind in rhythms of work. The next thing, and the next.
Prolonged overwork I find wretched and stupid. What's it for? (in light of the above, not even for money). Its saving grace is that after a while it's like running fast or standing for ages in a cold shower: it blasts away every other feeling, which when depressed has been your main feeling in recent months is kind of a blessing.
What happens, though, when you stop?