Above via The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin: Volume Four, 1927 – 1931; from the diary entry dated February 27, 1929. She is all I’ve been reading lately.
I turned twenty-six last month.
We are still having trouble with the second sentence, Miss Nin, particularly its nonchalant sense of balance. But I’m trying. I’m trying very hard. This afternoon, I slid out of bed and nudged the cat with my toes to see if he was still breathing because anything could stop breathing anytime and then I made coffee and then I sat down to work. I looked at beautiful things, at a remove, when I could. I looked at my photograph of the color-bled sky from yesterday. I caught my reflection several times today, and averted my gaze. I do not feel very equipped to write this right now, to write so publicly, but it is one of those things that I feel must be done. I am scared of this exhaustion, this sadness; it’s a requirement, this fear. My particular brand of unhappiness, my particular brand of weariness—they insist on constant vigilance. I’ve had happy days and happy weeks since I last wrote here, and I didn’t write about them here; I’ve had days and weeks where I didn’t have to constantly gauge the ratio of happiness and unhappiness in me, and perhaps I liked those kinds of days and weeks best. I need to read letters addressed to me; that is one more thing I miss. I need to paint more. I need to stop carrying shame and regret and longing and—needfulness. I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m alive, I’m okay, it’s going to be okay.