How can THIS writer be happy?

 

When I speak to people, I feel happy as sand-

boys and

castles and dunes on the

coast as we run down the slopes

hand

in

hand, and we still could, you know; if

you’d only say yes and be

happy with me

just as I am, no more:

no less:

no change

at all.

 

And how can this writer be happy as

that?  How can this

righter of wrongs not allow himself to be

over-

whe[el]-

[hel]l-

Med

by doctors and strife and life

of lonely

ex-

i-

stencil-

led?

 

For you know that

for someone

like me and my offspring,

variety is

key to being happy and whole:

and if life only

presents the

gifts of unchange-

[dis]-

ability, then nothing is good nor[e]

fine nor[e]

more closely aligned to the

right of the page than the

left: how sinister that

is, and how sad I become.

 

So do tell me this, if telling

you can man-

age, without [h]olding

my hand; that hand of a mil-

lion-

i-

sed words: if the happiness in my

life proceeds from

communication between a face and

another, and their sex and my

lust,

and our love touchingly together,

and our fun – July expressed – and

the

coffees and in-

fusions of mind and body both,

and the laughter that

flows forth, unstopping our thoughts

and making so possible

a joy of unlimited taughts,

then how should I pursue the act

of creation via simply sitting in

solitude and

producing the reams and

phrases and reams and

sent-

senses you

must know I want

you to

read.

 

And thus, in truth, my question can simply

be reduced to these

following few words I right

below:

if I want

to be a writer,

how can I be happy?

 

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