That is definitely a point. As a motorcyclist, I consider a life restricted to be a life unlived, and choose to experience what this life has to offer in its fullest, even if there is a potential for unpleasant consequences. However, I know the risks and make my choices, and I realize the possible consequences, and accept what they would mean.
Truthfully, if you were in that bad a shape, you'd probably need a continuous home health aide at a minimum, and more likely would be living in some sort of a health care communal living setting for the rest of your days. It would seem that would be a far better thing for you than having your family care for you.
And yes, speaking as someone who spent lots of his childhood treated in ways that nets people jail time when they apply it to ANIMALS, I can confirm for you that being treated in a subhuman fashion over time generally makes a human being wish for a speedy death, intelligent humans all the more so.
I've thought a lot about writing over the years, and I realize that it is essentially a selfish endeavor. I'm not toiling for a greater purpose, I'm making a choice to leave my mark for others to absorb. That's more than a little self-interested; who says I have anything worth saying, or that anyone will want to read it? Who am I to assume that there will be an audience, that there SHOULD be an audience? I've never written for myself, per se; I've written a few things to get them out of me, but if they never went anywhere else other than a locked journal that was never seen, what good would the writing have done? If the words don't go TO a place, can they be counted as having been recorded at all? So, for myself at least, I realize that writing is part of hubris. Even being paid to write, which I often am, does not mean my words have any more or less utility, validity, or right to an audience as anyone else's. I write because I choose to, and I acknowledge that that's a selfish thing I do for ME. It helps to get a check for it, of course. ;)
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regna
(no subject)
Date: 2006-08-16 07:01 am (UTC)Truthfully, if you were in that bad a shape, you'd probably need a continuous home health aide at a minimum, and more likely would be living in some sort of a health care communal living setting for the rest of your days. It would seem that would be a far better thing for you than having your family care for you.
And yes, speaking as someone who spent lots of his childhood treated in ways that nets people jail time when they apply it to ANIMALS, I can confirm for you that being treated in a subhuman fashion over time generally makes a human being wish for a speedy death, intelligent humans all the more so.
I've thought a lot about writing over the years, and I realize that it is essentially a selfish endeavor. I'm not toiling for a greater purpose, I'm making a choice to leave my mark for others to absorb. That's more than a little self-interested; who says I have anything worth saying, or that anyone will want to read it? Who am I to assume that there will be an audience, that there SHOULD be an audience? I've never written for myself, per se; I've written a few things to get them out of me, but if they never went anywhere else other than a locked journal that was never seen, what good would the writing have done? If the words don't go TO a place, can they be counted as having been recorded at all? So, for myself at least, I realize that writing is part of hubris. Even being paid to write, which I often am, does not mean my words have any more or less utility, validity, or right to an audience as anyone else's. I write because I choose to, and I acknowledge that that's a selfish thing I do for ME. It helps to get a check for it, of course. ;)