Hope

In my head I shall keep these images as the reason for my struggle.

Why the closet? I asked in my journal yesterday. So we'd concentrate on the work of self-reconstruction.

None of us can hold back the tide of stupidity, but perhaps we could be the grunion coming to shore that make getting their feet wet worthwhile?

I think I do best when I stop worrying about what people will think and strive to know myself.

A good parable beats a R*ndenoid slogan any time.

What I've found most interesting is how other people interpret the door.

In the wake of last week's parting of the ways, I've felt a brief lurch and a halt in my creative energies.

For the first time in months, I slept straight through the night.

The headaches, the loss of sleep, the anxiety I felt both before and after the meetings, the feeling that I have had a friendly circle taken from me -- these things hurt because I am a human being.

Something's become clear to me. The difference between taking things personally and being annoyed.

I return to this passage whenever I feel I irretrievably blew it.

I must admit that I played my part -- not minding my diabetes in the days following the Halloween washout and eating too much of the leftover candy -- but when I consider all evidence, the worst that can be said about me is that -- within the context of a self-fouled up body chemistry -- I failed to hold my temper in the face of a tantrum by another writer.

A constant has been established. There is no time to waste.

It has been on my own feet that my brain has taken the most dangerous rides of its life.

Though the heat declines in intensity and we're supposed to have rain, I still feel the soft-cratered spiritual morbidity in my temples and above my eyes.

I've never been bitter about my diabetes. It's just a disease doing its thing. Being mad at it is like being mad at the rain for leaking through the roof or at the roof for getting old and letting the wind shift the shingles so that the rain can come in.

Stillness, lassitude within the confines of one's house is the great enemy of sanity.

Every one of us would rather not have gone through the experience. I've reexamined a few incidents in my life and I've concluded that they did not make me a better person.

A exhausted blankness unto death, worse, it seemed, than anything Kierkegaard had ever imagined.

You can strip us, take everything we have, but you cannot kill us. We will survive, we will endure.