Sometimes I think this life is too easy. I sleep on my comfortable bed that sits off the floor. Mattress. Box Springs. Quilts, sheets and pillow. I eat frozen and preserved things from the supermaket. Foil wrapping. Empty box. Microwave. I travel miles in a single day. Engine noise. Concrete. Seated. I work, learn, ten hours a day. Chair with wheels. Desk. Ream upon ream of paper. It is not enough.

There is a feeling, vaguely remembered, an impression of what it is to truly labor, to work past one's limits, when sleep becomes nothing but a desperate stopping, a brief dark restoration, the luxury of dreams- nothing. Summer jobs- grease and sweat. Rock climbing- frozen arms and twisted hooks of fingers. This must be part of what it is like to be a soldier in war. There is no other feeling like this.

Sometimes I think this life is too easy. Sometimes I would not mind a war. Sometimes I would not mind flunking out into manual labor. Pushing my mind, my body, knowing that I can do no more, that I am doing ALL that is possible, and perhaps just a touch extra. Nothing wasted. Sweat, dry mouth, sleeping on the floor under a torn piece of canvas. Luxury is for the rich, the weak. Rest is for the lazy. I am a human. I am one of the finest machines evolution has constructed, and I shall prove it.

Comfortable bed that sits off the floor. Refrigerator. Microwave. Automobile. I do not need these things. Only two things. My body and my will. All else is meaningless.

Sometimes this life is too easy.