A CONFESSION ABOUT MY ATTACHMENT


One can be attached to more than just people, places, and things. Our most dire attachments are to desires and my greatest desire is to succeed as a writer, which our media has made into an international standard. No, I am not going to bash the desire or rationalize it, just admit it. Though my wisdom comes to my rescue often, it cannot erase the dark subterranean pattern of my failures which haunt me most often in the middle of the night. When I am in it grip, or rather, vise, which happens periodically, though its frequency has decreased, I think of all the plays unproduced, the books unpublished, the readings I gave to scanty audiences and they feel like thorns in my heart. I have become wise enough only to this extent when the sense of failure visits me: to feel it, to drink it to the dregs.

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