If I am the weakest person around, that, I couldn’t say…
So it seems. I, barely hanging on, ready to drop, surrounded by others getting on quite well, or at the very least, putting up a stronger fight than I am (or so it seems).
Do we create our own problems? So Emerson says. ‘We miscreate our own evils.’ There’s a difference in what I said and what I quote from Emerson, yes. But even so. Consider it.
Do I need to sulk? No. Why do I do it?
Impatience? Habit? It’s easy and flattering. Why flattering? Because it supposes that I can’t do anything about it. What’s ‘it’? My unhappiness. That it’s out of my hands, that it doesn’t depend on me or anything I can do, it’s the fault of fate, or fortune, etc.
I know this is stupid. I know that so much of what I do every day is stupid and serves no good, but I continue every day to fall into these habits, weak and quickly without heart or daring. I fall back on my worst thoughts.
This isn’t exactly true.
I fall (morally) and I blab to M—, or to S—K—. I make a scene, I stomp around. I forget every true thing I’ve felt and quietly acknowledged in myself, my heart. Agreed to.
I’m a wretch. (I would say, like everyone else, but—I’ll hold my tongue.—But why? I think it’s safe to say: that humanity supposes wretchedness, a propensity to wretchedness, to folly, to madness; some bear it better, or hide it better, or sublimate it better, let’s say. That’s all.)
I’m glad I’m writing. I’m surprised by the quality. I was just sitting before the blank page, wondering at my dumbness. Et voilà ma voix. Ça me manquait…
Gray Haskins 