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His fears seemed to be an expression of conservatism. He was afraid of losing the familiar.
Theatrics don’t work if nobody cares.
I’d feel paradoxically full in the stomach, empty in my heart, tired, alone, content, whole, hollow, broken and repaired, cheated and lucky, useless and essential to the cosmic pattern. On that ambivalent mood, as fascinating as a pillow, my mind would ease into sleep.
Is it enough to struggle in an endless cycle for the simple biological truths of food, water, sex, and sleep? I tried. I tried to be content. I tried not to feel nauseous about the failures of other people, to draw my satisfaction from the strength of my own muscles and bones. Success is selfish. I tried to relegate my friends to an idle dream. I pretended to a certain nonchalance, as if I didn’t need anyone and was quite well off on my own,
To the extent that heaven above is isolation, it seems to be hell. To the extent that hell below is a crowd, it apparently is heaven. Maybe we are condemned to an endless nagging sense of discomfort balanced against comfort, satisfaction against the itch to escape.
