Accentuated sense of estrangement as I struggle to truly write what I feel. Only time when thoughts are clear : while walking. But no pen or paper in mid-air, so the thoughts dissolve as the heeled foot hits the pavement with a tap.
Article in the New Yorker about a great writer who died because he tried too hard to write exactly what he felt - David Foster Wallace, the contemporary struggling scribe who ends up hanged in his garage with an unfinished manuscript on the table for his now-widowed wife to read. The suicide of a depressed man who thought salvation resided in writing fiction. It didn't work out but then, he attempted to write a book solely focused on boredom. There's no harder theme than that, I don't think.
Would be better if I could not identify with his story and his fate. Not saying that I'm adept at hanging but, you know. It's not about the death, more about the struggle. He didn't succeed in his endeavour. Everyone might have said he was great and meant it. If he didn't believe himself, the hype really didn't matter.
The wind last night was steady and slightly strong. Clearing the head and giving that night time its special song. And I thought about a theme for a book. Where a woman can't love because of her fear of dying. And I thought about Wallace and I thought at every tap of the heeled foot - some that stayed, some that faded.