Gosh, another hard day.* My head hurt for a long stretch, maybe five hours, maybe longer, and I am not used to prolonged headaches. But I didn't want to waste the day feeling sorry for myself (again), or listening to football playing in the living room.
I went for a long walk--I know I'm not supposed to, especially if I am a plague-carrier, but it was by myself up in the canyon in 30 degree weather, so I'm doing that thing that awful people do: I'm justifying my actions, saying, "Well, those rules don't apply to me because _____."
Even so, I doubt I infected anybody with my antics, considering I only encountered two people on the entire trail--and they commented that they must seem crazy to be out there doing a hike on a day like today.
I was glad I went, not just because there were still some fall leaves I got pictures of (and I hadn't hiked in a good long while), or because it was a particularly pretty afternoon, but because it reminded me that I'm alive. And that's useful.
Feeling really really good or feeling really really bad, and I've had both recently, are nice reminders that I can still feel profoundly, that there's still a heart beating inside that unimpressive chest of mine.
I got to the top of the trail--hitting a padlocked door again--where I finally went back in April or May (it was May 18th, turns out), but instead of sitting and taking in the view like I did that day, I just turned around again and started back down, my ears getting a little cold, despite my exertion.
I had a lot of thinking to do during that walk, which is more evidence for it being a good idea.
I wished that I were a better writer/artist, with the ability to write something powerful that would say what I feel, or leave a mark on the world, or yeah, cards on the table, impress a girl. But I'm not a songwriter (despite how rad that Chalupa song is), and even if I were . . . being passionate about something does not mean you can simply do it. Perhaps if I had written songs with the dedication I've given writing and narration, I could feel confident about it, but I can't even play an instrument, and that's almost hilariously limiting.
Maybe I'll set a goal for 2021 to do a Storage Unit Serenade with guitar accompaniment. That would be real dedication. My nephew is taking a guitar class in school, and so I have access to the thing, and keep wanting to play it when I hear him play it (and I'm better than him, for some reason, despite not taking a class--it's neat to be good at something, not that I'm good [or even okay] at this).
Push-ups Today: 103
Push-ups In December: 306
Sit-ups Today: 75
Sit-ups In December: 644
As far as writing goes today, I didn't get much done, but I did sit down and read through a story I wrote in 2018 or 2017 as my October Scary Story for that year. It was called "Roll With The Changes" and I never shared it with anybody. I always liked the idea behind it, but didn't feel like I pulled it off, but because I didn't feel like getting up for the first couple of hours of this lazy Sunday, I looked it over and thought, "You know, I think I'll record that anyway, and put it in my next collection**."
Words Today: 424
Words In December: 3681
*And I say that recognizing that there are Americans much sicker and much worse off than me, and that, honestly, makes me feel worse, because I should be grateful I can function and (most likely) recover from this.
**Which I have to get out before the end of the year, as it was one of my Goals for 2020. And it should be totally easy, considering I have enough edited audio just in the Collection 4 folder on my Desktop to fill three more volumes. I just have to choose the stories, arrange them, write an introduction, and put it out there. That shouldn't be an insurmountable task, despite my own worst tendencies.
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