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.
1 comment:
We're all trapped and we're all doomed. We all sense it but are powerless to do anything about it.
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