It Works if You Work It

I lay on the couch and carefully write in my notebook, like a child sentenced to copy down sentences he should memorize: "Life only means something if you mean it."

This tee-shirt platitude is the best I can muster at the moment, as a foul, black mood has descended upon me, despite the lovely sunshine streaming through the front window, and the mild breeze ruffling the curtains.

I'm waiting for Katie to come home so that we can work out. I'm dying to move, lift something, feel my heart beat, breathe heavy, just because the reality of the body under stress makes the existential angst seem foolish and far away.