Until the age of twenty-five, I had a special abhorrence for writing, for my thoughts and feelings put down on a piece of paper. Occasionally I would write a few sentences and stop, overwhelmed with disgust and horror. At the present time, writing appears to me as an absolute necessity, and at the same time I have a feeling that my talent is lost, and I can accomplish nothing, a feeling like the body’s knowledge of disease, which the mind tries to evade and deny.
This feeling of horror is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day that Felix and I separated; and once when I was a child, I looked out into the hall, and such a feeling of fear and despair came over me, for no outward reason, that I burst into tears. I was looking into the future then. I recognized this feeling, and what I saw had not been realized. I can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence like Felix breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure and final loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can contact? I am just a crazy old bore in a bar somewhere with my routines? I don’t know, but I feel trapped and doomed.
This feeling of horror is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day that Felix and I separated; and once when I was a child, I looked out into the hall, and such a feeling of fear and despair came over me, for no outward reason, that I burst into tears. I was looking into the future then. I recognized this feeling, and what I saw had not been realized. I can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence like Felix breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure and final loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can contact? I am just a crazy old bore in a bar somewhere with my routines? I don’t know, but I feel trapped and doomed.
1 comment:
I haven't read your old stuff, but I seriously don't think your talent is gone, you make everything sound way more interesting than it is. You're like the Steinbeck of border towns.
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