Doldrum

Another largely pointless wasted day. Its quite hard to believe that I'm still alive - at least once per day I am shocked, almost overwhelmed that I'm still breathing and above ground. I'll look around, and, rather like a meerkat searching the sky for hawks, check to see whether I'm alive.

When I feel the pain in my arse from the crumpled cushion on the wheelchair, I know I must be. So I think to myself, 'I'm alive, a major cerebral aneurysm which very nearly killed me, didn't. And a pulmonary embolism that actually did 'kill' me, didn't either.'  If I "should" be dead and I'm alive, it must all mean something. It must be about something.  I can't waste a minute, I've got to get getting, I've got to work. Any day without something significantly creative achieved is an insult to whatever deity who could have offed me but didn't.  Everything creative that I make, you see, is a tribute to the deity who created it in the first place.

Now I'll admit these are damned strange words for an atheist but as I write them now I know that they are true. When I write I feel that I am simply taking dictation from something invisible, half in and half out of the ceiling above me. Something which meets me half way and gives me the words to describe things I already know.

So today was a waste of time? No painting. No writing. No drawing. A waste of time. I let the howlers and screechers outside my door in the 'lunatic asylum' in which I live distract me every time I got started on anything. And believe me until you've lived in an old people's home where everybody is stone deaf and has to communicate at a full fledged screech, you haven't heard loud. So I started a blog.  So I would always have something to do.