I used to write out of an inner need, out of compulsion. Now I hesitate to write, because I feel there are some things that I should keep silent – some things I don’t want to unearth. It’s the straight and narrow, single-mindedness.
I feel the last few years of my life have been in some sense a gradual decay… but I know that’s not true. Still, energetic experimenting seems to have given way to… I’m not sure… planning for the future, or something like it. I’m not bothered by great problems anymore, there’s no urgency to the inner dialogue that goes on in my head. Sometimes I have a compulsion to make highly inflected and exaggerated nonsense words… I don’t know what it means.
I’m not desperately sad, or dejected, or forlorn. When I do think of my possible death, it frightens me somewhat. It’s maddening as well to think that I may never have really tried to seize life.