I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my pain.
Sometimes I feel like a poser pretending, faking confidence while the stage lights are brightest, until I remember that we’re all doing this and the trick is to finish the play and get off stage before the audience breaks the spell.
Anything good that I have written has, at some point during its composition, left me feeling uneasy and afraid. It has seemed, for a moment at least, to put me at risk.
Michael Chabon, “The Recipe for Life”
(I’ve posted this before, I’m sure.)
They are ill discoverers that think there is no land, when they can see nothing but sea.
Cut from another post and in search of a home
This is where I search my soul when, by “search my soul,” I mean ransack my scarred and shivered psychic flotsam like an amnesiac stranded on a beach, going through wet luggage for some sign of just who the fuck I am.
Today’s post is about trying to talk to people you admire.
I mentioned a couple of friends we had in common, which is to say I dropped names like a dufus. By which I mean: I didn’t work them into the conversation so much as I opened my mouth and let them fall on the signing table like a slobbery dog toy.