What is it like to be in sorts? I know all too well what being out of sorts feels like but in order for this antithetical experience to exist there surely has to be the initial contrary experience? No? Anyone?
I knew, as I always know, that travel and energy expenditure would have a detrimental effect on my stupid, health-limited body. And I was right but that’s not the point. If I don’t want to return to the state of total apathy and apparent readiness for imminent death that I toyed with three years ago I must continue to ignore the fact that adventure beats the shit out of me and plan for adventure anyway. I’d rather live a life based on activity and joy than one spent only cooped up inside four lonely walls wishing for a portal into the past.
So I go on these jaunts and then I spend months pretty much cooped up but with memories of connection, happiness, wonder and rebellion against my limitations to keep me afloat where once I sank to the bottom of bottomless ocean of despair. Which is impossible because I said it was bottomless. Ha ha, bottom. The more you say it the more ridiculous the word becomes. Bottom, bottom, bottom.
Sorry, what was I saying? Oh nothing new to the one and a half readers who come here. Summary – my health sucks and I’ll die younger than I should but now and then I push myself beyond my limits to see America or France or Ireland or Cornwall on the grounds that it’s better to live a happy, short life than a longer, trapped, miserable one.