Hysteria bred of religious fervor. Were we meant to experience this, or is it a reaction of our nervous temperament.
I am never calm unless I have written. Yet most of the time I absolutely cannot bear to write. I don't understand it.
There are so many things I want to do. I don't know if I want to do any of them. I don't understand the difference between happiness and ambition.
I cannot bear to write because I cannot bear to taint my stories with ambition. Yet they are not very meaningful if I cannot intend to share them in some way, or at least promise them a chance of excellence through the fine-toothed comb of an editor.
Today I have wished that I was in Austin. I wished it so hard I was bodily thrilled, as though I was about to teleport. I wish. You know what I really did today though, in my imagination, I visited the vintage clothing shops and sat in a coffee shop for a long time and browsed around town and saw the graffiti and grungy buildings.
I wondered if I could be a barista and a poor writer living in a hovel. I wonder I will always have to be so darn rich and care about having things look nice. I wonder if there's another option.