But I know that this is self-care. And that "busy" isn't always "useful" let alone "productive," "just" or "wise." Often, it's quite the opposite.
Less "working harder." More "doing well (and being well, one hopes)."
Practice? Maybe with others?
To take fiction and make it fact.
You know the kind of fiction we read, watch, hear or or act-out and wistfully, enviously, or hopefully wish were true?
"<Sigh>, if only there were a safe, kind place like that."
"If only people really did put on masks and help people (rather than do violence to them)."
"If only there were tricksters that fought oppresion rather than taking advantage of others."
"If only I was a girl, a boy, a something-else."
I want every yearned-for story to come true. I want to crack open every storybook and have the characters stream out. And when there is no story, only a misty hope, I want to condense it into stories, that it might seep down through the cracks in our souls, there to brew and, one day, bubble forth.
I want to raise Heldscalla.* I want fact and fiction twined about each-other, not one undercutting the other through deception or disappointment, but fusing into a rope stretching from underworld to heaven - allowing free passage of mortal into divine, where we walk in all possible worlds and the gods walk the earth.
Fact and fiction around each-other, not to deceive, or to disappoint, but to fuse, flow into-each other. This is not only my inspiration, I think it is the core of what we often mean by "inspiration."