I wanted to be a writer, that’s all. I wanted to write about it all. Everything that happens in a moment. The way the flowers looked when you carried them in your arms. This towel, how it smells, how it feels, this thread. All our feelings, yours and mine. The history of it, who we once were. Everything in the world. Everything all mixed up, like it’s all mixed up now. And I failed. I failed. No matter what you start with it ends up being so much less. Sheer fucking pride and stupidity.
Every time I sit down to write something—even though all I ever write are self-indulgent rants—I think of this. In my head it’s so smart and coherent and thoughtful. Then I write it down and it’s…so much less. It’s so depressing, though I guess it’s good to know the greatest writer alive feels the same way.