Many problems still remain, but I am not angry. Why is that?
I live in this room and that is all that I do. I should be anxious over my lack of achievement but am not. I do, however, make lists of what I’ve eaten today. I say:
— I wrote this after eating an apple.
— I wrote this after eating sawdust.
— I wrote this after eating a dose of iron.
— I wrote this after eating walnut jam.
The world has not melted in years. It froze many years ago I suppose, but I don’t know — nor could I, because all I do is live in this room. The room is a tight fit. In any case, I think it’s a room because there are four walls and a window with a bronze-colored curtain over it. The world froze many years ago, so the window faces an open expanse of flat ice tinted a grayish blue, like a cloud turned inside out.
But I am not angry.
Why is that?