I'm trying to enjoy my supposed literary life

because, compared to three years ago, I'm officially a writer.

Yet, I have to consciously decide, even at this point.

For, I haven't made money, and I don't have what can be called widespread popularity.

I'm sipping a delicious red tea which is caffeine free, and eating the remains of a very dark brownie.

Perhaps this is what the average Yale student might do on an afternoon, minus the calculus, and minus some of the prestige.

Perhaps I can fulfill the commercial image of someone 'living a life' in an artistic sense, even if I am not fulfilling it in the genuine sense of intangibles---or what might seem tangible to an economist, activist, or biographer.

It is not futile emotionally, but it has a pique of dissolution, only in an abstract sense, but not a very personable one.

Sometimes I decide that my life is complex. But it has none of the trappings of complexity. Someone might take an ersatz angle, and interpret that my writing and artwork make me complex. But I don't have French like Picasso, I don't have the courtship of Shakespeare or the architecture of Matisse.

My dissolution is that I lack fame. I can feel it breathing through a filter in a cobblestone corner near some drainpipes.

How much more I would be if I were merely interpreted to be great! This expression has been echoed before by poets at least.