Well. My plan for socialization is continuing apace, to the detriment of my nerves. I've tried taking some valerian; maybe i'll get rhodiola tomorrow. Every day... perhaps it will coalesce into a habit, I won't be able to go on w/out talking to people. My inadequacies pain me. That which is so easily accomplished by others, simple idle chatter, entails for me an effort of will so great. And in preparation for this effort of will, which may it must not be forgot be called upon at anytime, I must be a coiled spring, belly-sick and unfocused. Life is damnably hard. Family suffers. Health worries always. Sleeeping well. Chance for intellectual giantry. And maybe my efforts will one day be rewarded. The existentialists say that the genius of proust is in his novels; my personality is in my interactions. But no - in fact so no i'm probably misunderstanding them - my personality is in my stomach.
Making my bed there, it occurred to me to say that its time like these that one can be glad life is finite. But does this make any sense, i.e. can I feel the finiteness of my life, that it will one day end. Quaere.
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