I do not believe long-term illness necessarily makes me uninteresting as a writer, but I worry that a life of fatigue does. I worry it strips me of colour, movement, interaction, humanity. It isn’t just energy or activity that abandons me when I’m particularly fatigued, it’s words, it’s stories. Oh, thoughts remain, plenty of them, but they’re just footprints walked round and round in circles, overlapping, muddied, obsessive, no real use to anyone. I know not to dedicate too much time to them anymore.
100% all of this. Especially the thoughts.