I miss writing on pen and paper. I think it's because I can't think creatively on pen&paper anymore, it's almost a disease now. I had blue cheese today, it was stinking and tasted overwhelmingly of cheese, there was only this singular omnipotent taste of cheese, it was frightening. But I don't think I understand this friend of mine, he's turning into something very strange and thoroughly inexplicable, watching him descend into madness is filling me with this almost surreal sadness- and he won't help me at all, he won't help, and how can he when he can hardly help himself?
So this blue cheese reminded me of some of our weakest moments; this gush of overwhelming (dis)taste, so refined that you cannot even say you dislike it, it's so sophisticated (like Henry James) that nobody can actually mention that they rather hate it. I ate it with a pinched expression implying martyrdom while really, nobody forced me to eat it-in fact I bought it myself. ("When's your first major novel going to be published?" asked the man who sold me the cheese and I smiled and said "Thank you, that would be all, I've quit smoking.") So help me God, all who descend into madness do it not out of choice, but out of utmost necessity.
Then he made me read a strange poem, a surreal birthday gift, and it struck me how unreal our birthdays really were, this birthday being decisive and signalling some sort of both ending and closure, but really how unreal are most of our expectations and desires? He made me read it-so fervent and illusory, I closed my eyes for there was this stab of sudden, strange pain. Mother would have called it dyspepsia but I knew better.
It was the pain of growing old.