That life seems so dissatisfactory is no fault of things not working in the ways which will most please me. I suffer a fair share of disappointments myself, but when I think further, when I imagine how life might be had success taken the place of those dull disappointments, I cannot convince myself that I will be very much happier. It seems that no worldly matter can quite quell this mysterious, harrowing want of life.
This is the reason why I haven’t been sleeping well these past few nights. It’s always been a resolute heart at 10 p.m. and a flustered, restless one at 2 a.m. I roll to one end and then back to the other; I rest on one side, insert the bolster between my knees; I remove pillow but my neck begs for it back; I lay the blanket over my body then cast it aside as heat accumulates. Most vexing of all are the industrious thoughts that continue in their business when the rest of the world has ceased theirs, and create such a hubbub in the mind that it rebels against all the somnolence of the night. I think about everything during the night. I think about conversations had in the day, the remarks made, the other ways it could have gone, the motivations of actions, of words, her demeanor, religion, faith, God, death, life, my studies, my work, my writing, the future, the possibilities, jobs, surviving, culture, art, literature, poetry. It runs on infinitely. Alas, the industry of my mind.
All I want is to be at peace.