Maybe one day I will be ready to write a book about sadness. There will be some sex in it because even in the fog of it there is still a reaching out. Sarah Manguso in The Guardians writes "I've been insulated from my own death since I began taking this new medicine. I am no longer moved to write poetry, but I traded poetry for a longer life. I knew I was doing it."
This is the conundrum. If I go back on medication I will not be able to write the book on sadness. When I am sad I feel like my own sadness is big enough to be responsible for all the ills in the world. I am afloat right now but I am always aware of the drowning. Which time? Next time? The time after? Some time I will sink down too far and the tiny fluttering bird of my breath will take in water before I have time to reach the line where the ocean meets the sky.
1 comment:
I realize this post is old, but reading it just jolted me into a realization coming after 5 years of niggling tugs at my elbow, of a trade made, which put my living on indeterminate hiatus, while safeguarding my existence. Don't know why it's always so impossible (forbidden) to see from the inside. I apologize for my words, as I am not a writer, but a reader, but without them it's even harder to say anything at a distance. Hi from here.
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