Black

Despite, or perhaps because of, the fact that I've had a couple of nights decent sleep recently I was if anything more tired today. As a consequence it's been a day of little achievement even by my standards. I feel very frustrated at what seems like a waste of what should be a precious commodity - the brief time that constitutes ones existence. At the best of times I'm only able to do things in short bursts with long rests in between and a week of what feels like concerted effort achieves targets I could have met in a day or so before I became ill. From a survival point of view this is an unhealthy way of thinking about things - I know I ought not to judge myself by the standards I used to, that instead of thinking in terms of how little I've done I should focus on the fact that I've done anything at all. Easier said than done though, particularly with the dreaded Presbyterian work effort lurking in the back of your head passing judgement on the idle hours and sneering at the productive minutes.

So as an allegory of life and passing judgement on the worth and quality of one's existence, I give you a picture of black cloth. Examined stitch by stitch its a mess of different shades, only when one pulls back and looks not at the detail but the broad picture is one able to judge its effect.