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Symptomatic


Although I live, perhaps, too much, the life of the mind, I am not immune to the impact of external events. My recent flights into the writerly realm, where I claimed authorship of my own identity, have been invaded and colonised by thoughts of self doubt. I did not purport to be Woolf or Joyce, I merely admired their work and wanted to employ my art to get through; sometimes the cut and thrust of existence becomes too acutely felt, disproportionate in effect and affect. Affectively, bad for one’s health. I thought I was truth. Now, I do not know.
Is this the come down of a swing of mood or a new stage of my life? Only time will tell. Tomorrow, I may experience once again the wonders of sweet despair, rise from my bed of pain and greet the world with a smile. Tears, however, are forever near. This is the life of a Thursday’s child who has far to go. Do you sense my anonymity? Are you, also, afraid to reveal the fear, which speaks like a barking hound in your inner ear? Let me know, for I shall cleanse your spirit and watch your soma disappear, like laughter embedded in a frown of woe.

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