I found it more interesting to read what I'd written the day before than the news on the web, after a quick scan.  There were faults in what I'd written, but it felt vital and necessary to track the thoughts as they came and went out of whatever frame or state of mind they came out of.  Before work I felt the despair of disorganization, of finding my job an evil one getting me nowhere closer to a good life, but that seemed like as good a point as any to think about larger issues.  Did I want to go back to school, yes.  Did I want to try physician's assistant program, maybe… Or did I feel there was some overarching reason, as if true literary education was more important for health than any particular medical procedure, thus an interest in Christian healing, in a general way.  What was it about good health that drew me, even as the night shifts were hard to deal with, as depression over thinking one had taken the wrong path in life, fallen in with bad things, was hard to deal with, but by taking a positive step forward each day and writing as honestly as one could, for no better reason than to sort things out.

No literary critic would in their right mind discuss healing by faith in a personal way, truly entertaining the concept in its vastness, Gopnik in The New Yorker far more suited to a piece in the rise of disbelief, an intellectual history to delight and entertain.  What I wrote would only be craziness highlighted by more craziness.