Awake since 2.30 am, something in me rearing to go. Body said no. Brain not up to much either, but a word swam into consciousness (probably wearing water wings): layabout. Thought I’d look it up, found these heartening equivalents: deadbeat, slob, slug, sluggard, loafer, idler, lazybone. Lead-swinger! The latter sounds hard work (throw me an atom and I will have a go). Lazybone is almost tender; the others have a stink of condescension, derision, scorn, and I pinch my nose to no avail. Oh, and what about sloth – after all a mortal sin?
I do lie about a lot (and don’t lie about it, although I’d rather you thought I’m up and doing something). The problem is: these terms of ensnarement (and listening to the news) feed something in me that, despite better knowledge, feels along these lines, esp. now my faltering hands have dropped all making: that I am good for nothing (much), and that my place in the world is beleaguered. Shame is the operative word. And it swims without water wings.