Written June 17th

I walked away today, with a small, compact feeling of joy, i was smiling and even laughing to myself, but it wore off as the evening came on... And yes the old longing has come back, and with it much, much more. Its bittersweet. I suppose the intimations of mortality are haunting me with the impetus to produce something lasting. That will retain its strength or resonance, beyond what i will end up doing. And i want to write out of what i sustain within my own subjective thought. That is, the ingrained and inward pool of feeling that tends always toward action of some kind, delicious and growing like today, a wet spring, approaching an early summer, in which i don't feel daunted or afraid, but could sustain myself, old as i am, for ever, not regretting anything, not passively accepting anything but noticing everything, so that those that can come after me can say that i lived.