31st
2:30 a.m.
Afflicted
with a sense of isolation and aloneness that being in the lap of the family
does not mitigate. It is something inner, though prompted in part by the outer. Tensions in the family, or perhaps it is because I was pulled out of my
heaven for the sake of a tooth; or that
I have finished Malini and a vacuum has moved into its place, a vacuum in which
I feel the lack of a family, children, grandchildren, the comfort of older
people; or that as one gets older the life not lived begins to assert itself. These
sort of sum it up, but there is always something mysterious about a down,
something analyzable, something, perhaps, God-given, to experience, drink to
the dregs, not resist. Yes, I feel I have accomplished a lot, fed my cursed (I
think today) ambition, but it feels empty, isolating, without heart. I will have
to ride it out the best I can. The only way I know how is to plunge into my other project. But no, I must take some time out and feel all these emotions or they will haunt me in my dreams. I am more than a writer: a human being. And I must nurture the needs of this being the best that I know how. October, and all its activity, will help, I hope. Though I am primarily a home body, I can understand now why people love to travel so much. It tires you, distracts you, gives you the illusion that you are not isolated. It can also relax, if I can learn to relax into a mode of existing different from my habitual one.
I understand now my dreams about overshooting the home. Though I love my freedom, it can constrict and incarcerate me in its dreadful boundlessness.
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