Sick and Inspired.

I am sick. I knew it was coming and now that it has arrived, I must rest. I say this countless times to myself, to rest and take a break. 

But the idea of death being closer hits me in sickness and that is great motivation. I feel weaker. So I decide that I must expend all my energy on something that matters. Writing, graphic design, some form of art that I haven't obsessed over in two years. 

I chase this obsession, forgetting the concept of food and energy as I gain energy and expel it on some image I am trying erase a portion of. It's only when I am hit with the timing of curfew and a simple ask of turning on the light from my roommate that I realize six hours have passed.

My eyes hurt after straining for hours on end. My back is recovering from the torturous position I put it in as I lean over like gollum staring into my phone for tiny imperfections in the poster I am supposed to make by the end of July.

It's a secret. Kind of. It was of priority but I could put off another day for it. I was sick today, I am sick today. And yet, there's something so wretched about the fact that my heart and mind only combine when I am sick to decide that productivity is the way to go.

Being well and healthy is a privilege. One we take for granted. I hadn't decided to work on this poster on any other days. I just couldn't focus. I couldn't give this my time.

My oh so worthy time spent scrolling on my phone and killing my eyesight further. There's so much I want to do, I say. 

My time, I manage well on paper. I give adequate breaks and understand my needs like I was my own master and worker. Yet I don't work for myself. The worker doesn't work, the master just writes things down. 

Perhaps I need a union to figure out what I need and what I am missing. The worker who is meant to work doesn't work. The master who is meant to care doesn't care. 

Talking about the term work, a song by Mitski called Working for the Knife is one I think about most times when I envision my career and other future plans. It all seems in vain, a cog in the system. Especially in the artistic field. 

I can't generalise, of course. Regardless, Albert Camus's character in The Stranger was quite detached from his relationships, his grief, his self, and how he finds peace in knowing that life is meaningless is interesting. A detached man, a meaningless life. You would think it would be miserable.

He is on death row and the whole concept is absurdism. But he is happy. He achieves what some can't even with an amazing meaning. 

Is it something to be achieved though, I think. Contentment plays a great role is "achieving" happiness in life as its ever changing. What is promised is death. Perhaps that we can trust. We can be content with. 

But grief is never ending. Of memories, of people, of love. But so is love, I suppose, those moments of love are never ending, the universe rubs it in your face. 

Its back and forth, back forth, like the clothes I scrub. At least they dry. These seems to keep going, my skin peeling off, my fingers an imitation of raisins and my hands irritated. It still remains wet and no matter how much I wring it dry and hang it up. It rains the next morning.

It dries before it rains. I hold onto those moments. Maybe if I run harder this time, I will make it before the rain gets to the clothes. Maybe I won't.