Today’s exercises are like a branch I’m clinging onto after falling off a cliff. I’ve never been in such a desperate situation as this, though I’ve had plenty of difficult times over the years. At least before, there was a deep-down, “magical” confidence that kept me going, a secret, mysterious presence within me like a kind of guardian angel. Beneath everything else, I had a hidden and convoluted confidence in myself, and an even more hidden and convoluted confidence in God. And that confidence always sustained me. Now it’s as if I’ve lost my footing completely; my mind is fragmented and I’m in the grip of a psychological paralysis that, little by little, is becoming physical as well. Nothing about the present looks like happiness, not for a moment; there’s no peace or respite, no dreams to remember—my spirit’s like an arid pasture, a desert. And there’s not the slightest glimmer of a future, of any desirable future whatsoever. The whole thing feels like I’m hurling myself vertiginously downward through days, weeks, months, and years that pass without a trace, completely empty of content, toward death, the only certainty. Every day, for too long now, all I’ve been able to do is passively observe the progress of my ruin.

This is all very abstract, I know. It’s not that I can’t be more specific, but I’m tired of being more specific, and I don’t want to repeat myself. After all, this is just a handwriting exercise. There’s no point worrying about making its contents more concrete. It’s just filling a sheet of paper with my writing.

March 17