pointless

Well, I helped a friend move this morning. Yes, the same friend who owns the restaurant I'm working on. That took all morning.

I went back and painted more of the restaurant ceiling in the afternoon. I am almost finished with it. It is a high ceiling, I'm on a rickety ladder, and I'm also cutting around beams, which we're painting a different color than the ceiling. I have been working in this ceiling all week.

It is beginning to look nice, although I couldn't help to think, as I teetered precariously on the top of that ladder, "What's the point of all this?" Yes, it's a job well done, and it gives me a lot of satisfaction to create this aesthetically appealing space, but really—whose life is going to be changed by this??

Sure, someone might notice for a moment the clean lines of the beams or the artistry in the mosaic I've done, but what does it matter for eternity?

But then again, why do I enjoy this process so? Why does it make me so fulfilled? Why do I bound out of bed early every morning, eager to start work, even though I'm bone weary from the physical nature of the task??

I don't have any answers, but I know this is the way I'm wired.

Anyway, I think I'll finish the ceiling tomorrow and maybe start on the walls. Fun!