As soon as I decided I wasn’t going anywhere today, that I would take the entire day off, I knew that this wasn’t true, that I need those necessary ties to other people, the going to places I have to go. And even as I write this I imagine changing my mind again, or changing it halfway, taking a half day.
There are the days like this, when all work is put aside for the idea that getting on a strange bus and riding a route I’ve never been on is absolutely imperative. And I’m not saying it won’t be, or that I won’t do this in a few more days. Or that, even, I won’t do it today. Really, the last thing I need to be is alone, today. Writers and artists are always alone. Everyone is, but we know it keenly. When I look for a significant other it is like being a single parent. I am saying, “Hey, look, here. I like you. But you can’t ignore this kid at my side, these books, this writing. This is a full time business, a commitment. You may think it’s more important than you. In some way it always will be. You’ve got to accommodate for this, all right? You’ve got to love this kid too.”
I am so bad at forgiving. Yesterday morning I was ashamed and stained by anger. Last night I was just tired of hating. Tired of looking at the same thing again and again. I thought I didn’t know how to forgive, or that I had no control. Now, at least, I know I have some control. You see, once I thought I loved someone and had someone. Not like all those others who had found someone. And then this someone—well, he found someone and became one of those others and I was alone again. It still causes me pain to write of it even though I don’t want him back, never really had him to begin with.
But the odd thing is I am happier alone than I was with him, or then a lot of those who stood at my side and then left me are with those they are with. If I ever complain about being single it must be weighed against the comparative unhappiness of my friends who are not. Misery loves company, and generally finds it. Happiness, for some reason, is not the same. And everyone I ever loved was miserable, or began to make me miserable. If I could find a happy man whose roots were deep I think I might give everything. And I don’t even know what everything is. But he would not need me. Because he was already himself. And I would not need him, but my desire would be so great need would not even enter into it. But just you go looking for a happy man.
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