A very elderly man told me if all his bodily functions worked well that day, it was a good day. Some truth to that isn't there.
Terry Pratchett's writing is forcing itself up from memory into my conscious mind.
Some hardy nomadic horsemen are playing host to Cohen the Barbarian, the Discworld's greatest (and oldest) hero.
"The barbarian chieftain said: ‘What then are the greatest things that a man may find in life?’ This is the sort of thing you’re supposed to say to maintain steppecred in barbarian circles.
The man on his right thoughtfully drank his cocktail of mare’s milk and snowcat blood, and spoke thus: ‘The crisp horizon of the steppe, the wind in your hair, a fresh horse under you.’
The man on his left said: ‘The cry of the white eagle in the heights, the fall of snow in the forest, a true arrow in your bow.’
The chieftain nodded, and said: ‘Surely it is the sight of your enemy slain, the humiliation of his tribe and the lamentation of his women.’
There was a general murmur of whiskery approval at this outrageous display.
Then the chieftain turned respectfully to his guest, a small figure carefully warming his chilblains by the fire, and said: ‘But our guest, whose name is legend, must tell us truly: what is it that a man may call the greatest things in life?’
The guest thought long and hard and then said, with deliberation: ‘Hot water, good dentishtry and shoft lavatory paper.’"
From The Light Fantastic.
Me and pleasure.
I can do without it. I know, because there have been times that I've had to. I don't weigh that as having merit or honour or being anything to aim for as in some sort of odd spiritual discipline.
And nowadays a fair bit of pleasure does come just from such times when I'm free from pain and exhaustion.
But I try to budget some deliberate pleasure of fun into a day, if its possible. A few minutes losing myself into a tiny piece of railway modelling work, often problem solving.
A little piece of brain exercise, done at a sustainable pace.
And putting smiles on other people's faces, perhaps especially that, now it's getting difficult.
(for practical reasons, not mood ones.)
Having severe CFS is rather like being dead, but without any of the advantages.
At least when you're dead you don't have to keep explaining your condition to people, half of whom then don't believe you.
At least when you're dead you don't encounter social disapproval for "not joining in"
At least when you're dead the stiffness passes off after a while...
Chris