December 7th, 1981
Long Winter afternoons spent absently staring at a blurring color television. Smoking cigarettes and listening to the noises of the city out the window. The telephone rings and I pretend to be interested in some small matter at the office. I am not. I am not interested in anything at all. Grey winter has descended into my heart and the trees are bare. I try to think of small projects that need to be done. I cannot muster whatever energy— real or contrived— necessary to lure me away from the warmth of the quilt thrown haphazardly across the sofa and the endless blur of the television.
You are ill. You are recovering from a severe infection that had had you hospitalized for the past two weeks. You are taking strong medication. You must not expect to feel well or energetic or happy.
It seems that the biggest problem in accepting the fact that you must not expect to be happy.
It’s this silly notion I’m always harbored in my romantic little heart— that happiness is the meaning of existence.
Noble-hearted keeping still.
This makes the consummation of the effort to attain tranquility. One is at nest, not merely in a small, circumscribed way in regards to matters of detail, but one has also a general resignation in regard to life as a whole, and this confers peace and good fortune in relation to every individual matter.