I can not decide what book to read next. Soon I will have no more books by Houellebecq left to read. I may try to re-read him, but it is too soon. The first book of his that I read was only a few months ago. I have ordered books of his poems, some thing about H.P. Lovecraft, and his observations on Schopenhauer... because the well is running dry. Such is the contour of the coming crisis. It has been a while since I have discovered a writer whose complete works I read almost uninterrupted. It feels good. It reminds me of the enthusiasms of youth.
Bukowski was probably the last writer whose works I read with this sort of appetite. I should be cautious. He provides rich examples, yet perhaps remains a poor model on which to base a life.
Every day at work I inch closer to departure. The strength of the feeling that I have around this gives me some indication just how far into a comfort zone I have backed myself. I passed off one of my accounts to a friend today, a very big account. It was sad and sweet. There were congratulations all around for me and the warm smiles that one gets when "moving on." I imagine it feels a little bit what retiring might feel like. Though of course there will be a lot of work to do when December arrives. So only the sense of departure, not in the paralyzing openness of the future.
That is, I think, why I started writing here again: the feeling that I might not be able to soon. It is curious, the function of feelings. Sometimes we want what we can have.
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