Until the age of twenty-five, I held a particular revulsion for writing, the pretense of retaining my thoughts and feelings down onto a piece of paper. Occasionally I would devise a few sentences and stop, overcome with loathing and horror. At the present time, writing appears to me as an absolute necessity and, at the same time, I have a feeling my talent is lost and I can accomplish nothing. A sensitivity comparable to the body’s knowledge of disease, which the mind vainly attempts to evade and deny.
This feeling of paranoia and apprehension is always with me now. I had the same feeling the day my American boyfriend and I separated; and once when I was a child. I looked out into the hall with such an impression of fear and despair washing over me, that for no outward reason I burst into tears. I was looking into the future then. I recognized this feeling and what I witnessed had not been realized. I can only wait for it to happen. Is it some ghastly occurrence of the long gone ex-boyfriend utterly breaking my heart, or simply the deterioration and failure and finality of loneliness, a dead-end setup where there is no one I can contact? Am I simply a crazy old bore in a cantina somewhere with my abhorrent stories? I don’t know. Nonetheless, I feel trapped and doomed.