So this Sunday morning I got to spend some quality time in the emergency room. Apparently there are limits to how far the human body can be pushed and I was dangerously close to hitting mine.

Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. I think I've finally come to realize that despite my gloomy outlook and my consistently dire references otherwise I've way too fucking stubborn to pull the plug on myself. It's sort of a relief really. I don't know if constantly revisting those same old ghosts has brought me some sort of closure or if it was just the fact that I discovered I do have a survival instinct. I don't know but the last few days of forced rest has given me a lot of time to think and I've come to a few important realizations regarding my life and how I've been living it. Why does it always take the life equivalent of blunt force trauma for me to get my perspective realigned?

I'd like to believe that this will mark a dramatic return to my arts and writing but I doubt it. Baby steps...