If it were now, I would say yes.

I am sitting upright in bed, hair pulled back somewhat untidily and glasses on, contemplating the creation of a bowl of oatmeal with bananas and cherries and walnuts. Alfred has lain himself across my knees, looking up at me questioningly, as if to ask whether his heavy body is drawing my hand's attention to the top of his head. The house is quiet and still; a distinct absence is apparent. Therefore, I must fill it. Fill the entire house, with movement, and the wafting scent of fresh food, and NPR voices, and new art. My hands must keep going while my eyes remain open. In this manner, I can ensure that I will continue to enjoy myself, though not all together unaware of the hole I am dancing around. And still, this happiness revs me like an engine, it is sure, and stable, and I know it will not run out. So, I put my faith in the unconscious workings of my brain and limbs to drive me forward, to make anew. It is another day.