You learn, and forget, what happiness is.
You learn it so quickly it feels like a mistake.
When I finally put up that shelf above the cot in the studio,
That was happiness. I could do nothing all day
Knowing I could grasp those thin-enough paperbacks
And I could not before. Sometimes what feels like hours
Is hours. I have spent every hour of my life
To feel so awfully, and suddenly, this.
I have to teach myself, lifting the new brand of soap to my nose,
How easy it is to accept failure
And move on. There is always something else to be done.
Late at night, hunkered down at my desk, I similarly do not know who my writing is for: the person I am, or the person I feel I should be.
When I feel confused about something, I write about it until I turn into the person who shows up on paper: a person who is plausibly trustworthy, intuitive, and clear. It’s exactly this habit — or compulsion — that makes me suspect that I am fooling myself … Writing is either a way to shed my self-delusions or a way to develop them.