The loneliness of the long-distance runner is nothing compared to the loneliness of the writer. I need Twitter to get the gears turning. Where is the inspiration of yesterday? I should always take a notebook to the cinema or the theater.
Unemployment used to be such a fertile time for me. The world used to open up like a flower when I wasn’t working. I usually didn’t take advantage of it very well, but at least it felt like my oyster. Now the need to pay the bills and figure out what I’m gonna do with the rest of my life are pressing down upon me, even though I’ve got a tidy sum in the bank.
That frees me from financial urgency, but it doesn’t solve the deeper problem of figuring out what to do. And really that question obscures an even deeper one: To what community will I belong, i.e., who will be my friends? Don’t confuse this with a pathetic plea for companionship. I’ve rejected many potential friends. My tastes are particular. You could call me a friend snob.
I continue to write and still the coffee shop’s WiFi network refuses to grant me internet access. To what god can I appeal? Which deity will hear my lamentations?