Only, the thing by which you wear yourself out must require something of you, even if you have a talent for it, let us say especially if you have a talent for it. That is, it ought to take from you all the love you are capable of giving, so that, were time endless, and you an immortal whose only way of finding meaning was by walking some landscape or terrain, a moment would arrive when you found yourself too tired to go further, and could only sit and be idle, or contemplate and pray, though fate would not be so kind as to remove you to another dimension, such as an afterlife, or an eternal rest, but would leave you where you were, existing, which isn’t to say it would look with disfavor on you.