I think buried in my disappointment that my days are not more than they are is the expectation that they should be. Somehow I’ve been convinced that the every day should be less everyday and more unique, and when every day is everyday, I feel disappointment. Here I lie in my bed after watching a well-written movie (a rarity these days), and feel less than for having lain here watching rather than having lain here writing. Yet I have not yet overcome the belief that took hold this summer that I am not a writer, although I recognize in saying that I have not yet overcome that this feeling can be subjugated, and honestly I’m not sure that it can. I remain ambivalent. I am suffering an artist’s crisis. It is not one of confidence, but one of belief. And threaded through this I wonder whether it is incorrect to have the expectation that it should be any other way, if I’m supposed to learn to accept the everyday every day, rather than to desire to create and to live beyond the everyday.

Does any of this make sense? To anyone except for me?

My soul is languishing.