If you are sick, and you don’t go into the office basically this whole past week, does that mean you don’t exist? Maybe not. But it sure feels like it. Hello cabin fever. Hello mushy muscles and greasy hair.
I just texted a girl friend after a very sweaty, cough-y nap thus:
I feel like if I wasted away into nothingness, it wouldn’t be noticed.*
So, in my sick-haze, I get the sense that my worth and my entire existence only comes into play if I interact with other humans. That whole dream of living on the moors of an isle somewhere tending to the land and my dogs, would be a very bad idea… unless shared with another human. Which, incidentally, now conjures up something Christopher McCandless learned all too late:
Happiness is only real when shared.
Well, I believe the quote to be true. But what of being under the weather? What of that?
I very much would like to not feel so alone, cooped up in this apartment, so apparently I write. There is small comfort knowing that someone could potentially read this, and therefore, my feelings are shared and I must exist because of it.
Gotta go. Tina’s calling me.
*The “it” being me wasting away.