After writing through the night, I saw my wife off to work, walked the dogs, and then collapsed. Pain exceeded tolerance, and I had to check out, I guess. Flower Pot, one of the Pits, stood watch over me until I came back to the world of the conscious.
All I wanted to do was curl up and try to ride the waves of pain and nausea until I washed up on some solid shore.
Instead I got up, and started cutting metal for another small part that will eventually go into an airplane.
I've been asked, and ask myself, why? I'm not going to live to finish the thing, let alone fly it. So why not write when I can, and put on a DVD or doze when I'm done writing? Why chase down the dream of flight, and use up the energy I have left?
I guess the answer is that I want to remain true to what I was, and to the dreams that sustained me through most of my life. To say they defined me is a bit much - I used to think that, but one's personal definition is a lot more complex.
But they did make a lot of days fun. And I owe those dreams - and the self I was - my best effort. Even when I'm spitting up blood.
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