August 6, 2020

It's noon. I'm a little hungover and sleepy. I read Camus for a few hours. It is raining and gray; it feels like fall. The living room was lit by warm light. I was cozy and caffeinated.

I feel lazy and like a bum. I feel like I am growing soft. I am afraid to enjoy this comfortable as an end in itself.

My hands and feet are cold. I want to huddle under blankets. A part of me is disappointed in my softness. 

But maybe there is something to be learned in this softness and stillness. Maybe there is something subtle to be revealed. I hope I can find something of future value in this moment. Or perhaps I die tomorrow and I should enjoy the day however I see fit. 

...

The conditions of life do not seem good. I mean this in the most general sense.