A week continues. My rough shell begins to molt, as I return to jobs, to subways, to people's smiling faces persuading my own to return the gesture. The unpleasant reflexes of smarting replies and unengaged silence soften; I return on the F train smiling. Everyday putting these clothes on, washing this skin and braving the world, every day lighter steps and easier breaths: is this the choice, then?
Must it be one or the other? A life of creative ecstasy, of connectedness to self in the mad delusions of art, that eliminates all others from my line of vision; or a simple life of smiles and paychecks, of loving and being loved but where the Words lie quiet at the wayside and my purpose empty, pointless?
I cannot choose; do not make me. I know already the road.
It will break me.
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