Returned to England this morning. The goodbye to Francis itself was no problem. Things felt much better because we talked last night. However, as I write I can feel all the familiar feelings again. I feel subdued, alone and unsure of what to do with my life. It may not be as severe as it sometimes is, but the feelings are nonetheless there, and there’s nothing I can do about them. Whilst travelling, I was surrounded by working people on mobile phones doing business on the move. I wonder whether I will ever be so enthusiastic about what I do, or whether I will ever find anything worthwhile.
Every time I enjoy myself I feel wholly inadequate afterwards. I don’t understand why. It’s a phenomenon in which I cannot believe people can survive without me. Where does this conceit come from?