Wednesday 5 November 2003

Pic of the day: Another Sakaki-san picture, from the inspirational anime Azumanga Daioh.

Oww, that hurt

My arm is gradually getting worse and worse. It now hurts from the inside of my palm to the side of my neck. Ironically it is at work the pain grows worse; at home it just doesn't get better, the way it would if I weren't writing. I guess when my grandfather was my age, it was considered perfectly acceptable (and even natural) that your job left you unable to do much more than regain your strength for the next workday. Today, at least here in Norway, this seems like a breach of human rights... But even if I could get a paid sick leave, I think it would be ethically dubious. A workplace has the right, within limits, to wear down our bodies. We are not paid to have fun, after all. But am I paid enough to not even have fun in my free time? I guess I shall have to think about that. But not tonight, dear. I have a headache, too.

Anyway, I guess this spells the end of my NaNoWriMo effort. Even if my arm recovers, too much time will have passed. With the speech recognition, I can write several paragraphs in an evening, but not several pages. And I am certainly not going to drop my journal, which I have been writing pretty much daily for more than five years in a row! (And even if I did, I'm not sure it would be enough.) I will however try to dictate as much as I can.

Then again, I will also try to stay alive and keep as many body parts as possible.

***

Oh dear. I just read my year ago entry. In which I had written two chapters that day, and I was worried about the content. I could even play computer games. No mention of arms falling off.

I guess it is time to face the truth. Novel or no novel, I am not going to have a job a couple years from now. If it has worsened that much in one year, then it is likely by next year I will be able to do nothing at home except meditate and sleep. Well, and eat... I suppose I can butter my own bread for a couple more years, although not without pain. But any which way I turn the goose, it is cooked. And it is not even as if I do a lot of data entry at work. It seems that simply being there is enough to hurt my body. Of course this is not possible, at least unless you count supernatural forces. A much more likely explanation is that it hurts my soul, and my soul hurts my body. This is known to happen to humans. So why not me?

I suppose I'll have to do something about this, then.