Conditionally-Unecessary Activities (CUA) (Poem)

Sink too much and your efforts are for naught.

(Note: Due to yet another period of exhaustion this'll be written in a poem form to reserve the little energies I have currently):

Imagine dedicating much of your life time to walking.

Hours by hours, sweat after sweat,

Spent on walking that can make one

A strong, more endurable being.

Imagine exercising one time in a day or two,

Resting, afterwards, after much satisfaction.

These hours which one has spent,

Will not get back, even if one is to forget.

Unless immortality is to be achieved,

Your activities will be marked in the past,

And, thus, be in an immovable spot.

All events, all efforts, after all,

Will enter in an ever-consuming space,

That'll eventually, consume both you and me,

And all mortal beings.

I was that walker, that exerciser.

I used to walk 4, 5 hours each session,

And when I liked it, I went to the gym.

These were the days where I was at my prime.

Not even an IDF soldier could walk that much (I asked),

And even though I wasn't "ripped",

I used to be one of the strongest men I personally knew.

However, as the cursed enemy arrived,

The "embedded rune" of chronic fatigue,

My physical health slowly deteriorated,

No matter how active I tried to be.

Walking became mundane and insufferable,

Lifting weights become so very tiresome,

And even standing up didn't become as easy as it was.

I became a bit obese,

Walking small distances became exhausting,

And I no longer can make it to the groceries,

Due to the heat and due to the mountains I live in.

It was then -- and now -- that I realize,

I wasted all my time in physical training,

Not because it is futile by itself,

But because it is only effective,

By the condition,

That you will maintain it,

For the rest of your life.

Abandon it too many times,

And its effect will melt down indefinitely,

As if it has never happened.

All the days of ascetic, solitary training,

Lost due to tiredness,

That cannot be helped against.

If there was a "magic potion" that'll make me as exhausted

As an average man,

And not make it difficult for me,

To inhale and exhale,

Then I'd surely take it,

In order to become a better writer,

And in order to become far healthier,

Than I currently may be.

I view the time I spent in childhood

As a waste,

Because of myself,

Of what I could've done instead.

Now I also view my teenage years,

For the exact same reason --

Even though I actually done what I wished to.

Now as an adult,

My writings might endure dozens, hundreds of years,

And all I have to do is to write,

Nothing more.

Play a video game,

And you might waste your time nonetheless.

Exercise,

And you might waste your time unless you stop.

Write,

And you gain the both worlds:

Of improvement and of preservations,

No conditions applied.