Today was Labor Day, the unofficial end of summer. I can tell the days are getting shorter and the sun sets earlier. I’ll be so glad once cooler weather starts up for good. Didn’t do much this Labor Day weekend besides reading and some writing. Been sharing some of my older posts from years ago. Some of those seem as relevant as ever. Shared some posts I wrote during the pandemic. Hard to believe that all started only three years ago. Feels like ten years ago some days.

Everything I have set out to accomplish since I moved to Oklahoma seven months ago is accomplished except for finding my own place. I have zero idea when a place will open up. Could be any day. Could be several years from now. Currently living in the guest room of my parents’ house. Yes, it is a blow to my pride being a 43-year-old man living with my elderly parents even if I buy my own food and pay my share of the utilities. But I know people who have it far worse. People sometimes tell me I’m lucky to be disabled and get cheap health care and a pension for not being able to work. Sadly, they are right. But I think my being lucky says far more about our current system than anything.

Believe it or not, I would love to be cured of schizophrenia and heart failure. I would love to work again, preferably be self-employed though. I have always worked long and hard. Always will. Even on disability I easily spend 60 to 80 hours a week on reading, writing, and researching. Have ever since I left my last “traditional” job back in 2012. If anything, I work harder and longer now than I ever did when I worked for someone else. I didn’t do nearly as much writing and research when I worked for other people, especially in my twenties. I do more reading and writing now than I ever did even in college. I just don’t get paid or credit for it.

I don’t really care if I don’t get paid for my writing and research. I don’t care if many people agree with me on anything. I write because that is what I am good at. I don’t care if it makes me even a cent. I will continue to write as long as I am mentally sharp enough to. Unlike most physical skills, mental skills don’t usually deteriorate until old age. It’s why even though I have physical health problems, I can still manage my life. I write because I have a mental and even physical need to. If I make money, it’s cool. If not, no big deal.