clear
I thought my brain might never go back. Hibernating for a week caused reasonable concern, but of no consequence. Here. Points just like this, thats what keeps me trudging. First snow of the winter today. I could cozy myself and feel that happiness you can only feel when you're alone. In this case, nustled in bed reading after aching all day to feel just that warmth. The white. The clarity. The cold. That sting. Simple flowing lines out your window, contrasting. This is what I'm living for.
" They're right: maybe it's been too easy just writing about myself and horses and drinking, but then I'm not trying to prove anything. taking long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female remains, I find that I needn't always be on the lookout for new conquests. riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a problem for other men.I am often satisfied just being alone. i now find people more amusing than disgusting (am i weakening?) and although i still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me. Readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability not to care - at times - as our society erupts and struggles does not mean that i am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds, being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on schedule? I don't know and I don't seek an answer - just a small quiet space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out. "
" They're right: maybe it's been too easy just writing about myself and horses and drinking, but then I'm not trying to prove anything. taking long walks lately has been pleasant and although my desire for the female remains, I find that I needn't always be on the lookout for new conquests. riding the same mare need not be boring. let the wild young fillies be a problem for other men.I am often satisfied just being alone. i now find people more amusing than disgusting (am i weakening?) and although i still have nights and days of depression the typewriter does not fail me. Readers expect continual growth from their poets but at this time just holding (the fort, haha) seems miraculous. long walks, yes. and the ability not to care - at times - as our society erupts and struggles does not mean that i am the victim of artistic loss. solitary evenings behind drawn blinds, being neither rich nor poor, can be satisfying. will madness arrive on schedule? I don't know and I don't seek an answer - just a small quiet space between not knowing, not wanting to know and finally finding out. "