For a long time, I wasn’t able to do anything. Perhaps this is trite, or even cliché, but my surroundings imposed themselves on me, overwhelmed me, paralyzed action, thought, movement, speech. Thinking of a thing was as much work as physically enacting whatever my thought suggested. So it often was that I became tired just thinking of a thing, and would sooner forget it, rather than feel so overwhelmed, drained, exhausted. Curiously, during this time, I was able to write. Writing, as I’ve often said, isn’t movement or action or even thought but an activity that is between action, before thought. So it was that I was able to remain, or attain, whichever you prefer, a state of mind where I was buoyant. A certain buoyancy. Which far from being self-sustaining was in fact perhaps deleterious to my overall mental health, because even as I knew the writing was going well, that I was, in fact, writing—as opposed to typing, which I am doing now—this buoyancy prevented me from coming to certain conclusions about myself which were, perhaps, necessary; my reluctance to come to these conclusions only postponing the moment when the matter would, so to speak, come to a head.