Sometimes I read the things I’ve said before and I say to myself, Well, lookit, you were saying things then. Now I have nothing to say. It’s been like this for some time.
Probably I’ll have something to say later on, although it’s possible I won’t. All the other times I had nothing to say, I eventually found things to say, but who’s to say that this time will be the same? (Remember: falling down seven times, getting up six.)
Part of the problem is that I don’t want to say the same thing as always. This wasn’t a problem before because I hadn’t realized how much I was saying the same thing over and over. Now I do, and it makes me nervous.
A friend wrote about a trip to California, which he described as “pain, torture, anguish.”
“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he wrote. “But someone is writing this.”
Exactly.
A man signs a shovel and so he digs.
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