My hand hurts. I have been writing and typing a lot lately, and the tendons and ligaments in my right wrist are worn out. It is a disconcerting feeling. My hand has been hurting for about a week; hurts to cook, hurts to fold things, hurts to open packages I get in the mail. I am young yet, how am I debilitated? This does not bring the most pleasant contemplations...I am already neurotic.
This has led to me to contemplate my ability to tough-it-out. For instance, even as I type this, my wrist right before my thumb is pulsating a little bit. Does that mean I should not write? When the first paragraph comes easy, and then you hit the wall, well, then what? Do you give up and snap the laptop shut? Tonight, I prefer to keep listening to Thom Yorke croon at me through the speakers, and to write. WRITE. I may just be typing into this blog, with no other purpose than to put some words out there, but I will type.
My friend told me the other day that Thom Yorke must smell like rasberries. It makes me laugh, because of course. What else would he smell like? If someone were to distill me down to a fragrance, I wonder what it would be. Would it be something flowery, like tulips or something fresh like grapefruit or cut-grass? I would like to think that it would be a very light, alive scent....maybe like an ocean wave or a crisp breeze. I would like to be a refreshing smell. I would always like to make others happy. At once, a great strength and precarious danger.
Now, I should go to bed. Exercise completed for the night.
