I want to forget that I can cook, that I was once good at research and exegesis, and that I'm a literate person who loves literature and music and art. No marriage, no babies, no lovers, nothing. I want none of these. I could survive on cigarettes, coffee, jazz and peace. And chocolate cake. And please, please- I am NOT writing a novel. I cannot write a novel. Or maybe just one novel, like Sylvia Plath. True poets can never write novels. There was only one exception- Rabindranath Tagore-but I feel
1. He was a novelist who was a poet. That works.
2. He could do everything.
3. He had money to travel and he was astute. Not for him Plath-itudes.
What am I even talking about? I feel like Hans Castorp in his lonely sanatorium. Having taken refuge in my useless mind, space is contracting, time is expanding and everything has become a dialogue between opposing ideas. To write or not to write? To destroy or to create? To die or to live? To eat or to smoke? To smoke or to smoke? Hmph.