I'm very excited to announce a sick day, mine. As I take a moment to reflect on the million tasks that my body has shirked through collapse, I wonder over the loosely proximate days before this, and all the doing I've done until my bones powdered– I find I can hardly remember what they were. Worse maybe, those things I can remember, are the pressing shames of my own undone effort, my incompletes.
While a vague sense of guilt and purposelessness has fogged in on my periphery– does this guilt come from within me? What am I meant to accomplish as ontological vocation and dream? Or, better yet, what actually needs to be done? Seemingly, it is me that feels the pressure to be doing, anything, just for a sense a purpose. Even if only through the imposed value of what purpose means, mine. I am one living thing that needs to do something? BAH!
Today my purpose will be yoga and smelling.
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