Indolence.

You would think that, being confined at home with my knackered arm, I would be getting on with something productive: reading books, studying, doing research and so forth. But no: I seem to be all clogged up, unable to spring anything forth, do anything of any value at all. Indeed, I've been staring at this bloody computer screen for the past two days, unable even to work up the strength to think of something to write.
Indolence has this effect on me. Once it sets in, inertia follows, then I get nothing done whatsoever. And once that happens, I start feeling depressed at my own inability to move. However, one benefit of this enforced break is reflecting on the fact that movement, action of itself is actually pretty valueless. There needs to be a point to getting something done, and I should know: I'm a master of displacement activities. I've been reflecting on how much time it is possible to waste, even while doing an impression of a blue-arsed fly, and the fact that pointless work is as much a product of indolence as sitting in front of the TV.