Normality

I wonder if writing can be separated from life. Going to work in the morning, then coming home, eating dinner, reading the papers and getting down to creating. Writing in the afternoons or on Saturdays and Sundays. Having an orderly, logical life, and saving the contradictions and unease for certain moments only. And on top of all that, being a great poet.

I haven't managed it. To be honest, I never even dreamed of it. The poetry that engulfed me and that I embraced with delight has taken over my entire life. I cannot make it ordinary, I cannot separate everyday matters, mundane affairs, from the constant need to create. I have not learned to look at the world objectively, I have not arranged my relations with people in any normal way. I know that I am an artist, I know that I must be different. I have grown accustomed to the difficulties that this awareness brings. I no longer react to the laughter of those around me, I am no longer irritated by condescending tolerance or hidden irony. I live as only a poet can live. And I am proud of it.

I know that some time must still pass before my talent is discovered. But I am patient. Great works were not recognised straight away, and their creators had to endure the bitterness of incomprehension in solitude. So I wait, as they did. Although? — I should probably take my new pieces somewhere. I haven't been feeling very well lately and I haven't moved from here. Besides, I was still afraid of that irony which, I feel, always surrounds me whenever I go out. But why shouldn't I go today? I'll just take all the sheets, put them in something, and I can be on my way... Well, no. There's still no handle.