Thinking about language this morning. Yesterday no language did me any good, I couldn't settle into my skin and came home early with a fever. I slept most of the afternoon, my dreams commonly delirious. Maybe it's the moon. Waking up I still couldn't settle into my skin and felt I would slip out of it at any instant. It is horrible and uncomfortable not to fit in one's own body. I left my apartment and took my fever out into the night and walked around my neighborhood but it did me no good. I came home and tried to write but the pen didn't fit in my hand and nothing made any sense after I wrote it. I couldn't handle it so I dipped into the orange bottle, split an anti-anxiety pill in half, swallowed it and disappeared from myself until this morning.
There are a lot of famous dead writers who went crazy or fell into drugs or alcohol. Lots of depression too among writers. I had a theory once that maybe artists feel things more than other humans because we are the emotional historians of the world and it is our job to document. I don't know if it is true. I am not swinging one way or another these days; I'm not happy nor am I sad. My life is quiet and ordinary, maybe that's what is making me crazy. My anxiety attacks are a recent development in my life, less than a year old. I haven't had many in the last half-year, the distractions have been good. It bothers me that the writing dries up at times like this. This is when it would do the most good.