There’s no reason for me, I feel. I don’t think it would be so bad if I was numb-minded. If I didn’t know how magnificent I almost was, I would be mindlessly happy like the masses I’m surrounded by. Pacified by the glare and boom of a TV set, I’d perch on a couch, a child on each hip, grinning and folding laundry.
But I’d asked to be here, hadn’t I? If I hadn’t been raised so well, or if I had been raised better. Maybe it would be different if I hadn’t read so many books. If I hadn’t seen so many places, lived in so many cities and hamlets, if I hadn’t felt ecstasy, this wouldn’t hurt so much.
Worse of all, it wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t put myself here, blindly, deliberately. If I was happy being totally alone for weeks, even months, then I would be happy. But I’m not.
I need a myriad of blades of grass to sing me sonnets. I need my soul to connect with others on a level so deep that I cannot realize it half the time.
I told myself that my life would be worth living as long as I was at the side of the man I loved and who loved me. Why didn’t I think of the life where I was, not beside him, but behind?