im a sleepy impostor

1/15
Took a walk this afternoon, as always, and felt compelled to keep a catalog of what I found.

dogs being walked - 6
bald old men - 2
houses being remodeled - 4 (most loudly, with table saw sounds)
several birds, including phoebe, yellow finch, hawk, and the usual crow murder

I pricked my finger upon 1 leaf, and imagined I was sleeping beauty, soon to fall into a slumber. I'm not sure what type of slumber - I have been literally more sleepy lately, due to calorie deficit. Yet I did eat more/differently today. Instead of only smoothies until dinner, I've decided to follow a partial-fasting schedule, where I only eat from 12pm - 8pm. (although, I am dishonest - I just finished my oatmeal and it's 20 past 9pm) The goal of the fast was not to be thinking about the fast itself, but about God. It all to quickly reveals how human I am.

My dad approached me in concern, while I was reading 'Seymour, an Introduction.' Without explanation, he kneeled close to me and put his phone out on my desk, and began playing an excerpt from Malcom Gladwell's 'Talking to Strangers' podcast. Gladwell described the significant odds that life as a poet meant a form of depression or mental deformity, and has often lead to suicide. The message bearer then turned to me with his signature, unexpected and often unbearable looks of empathy, that he reserves since it is in discord with his general indifference and humor. He said that he no longer wants me to be a poet (too late, perhaps) or at least hopes I have a happier disposition. I believe I do, in general, though I'm trying not to compare. Kay says I'm a sad person, but I know it's not all that I am. (the same person also dances with abandon in the living room and enjoys a well-crafted pastry) A part of me wonders whether I feel first, or whether I feel because I write as though I do. Meaning, in short, whether I'm actually the melancholic artist or whether I pretend. I think it's a terrible thing to have impostor syndrome about.

After I thought all this, I ate a vegan dinner and went back to reading. I was pealing an inch-thick of flesh off a pommelo as a dessert, having a difficult time at it, when the author (Buddy Glass CO Salinger) reaffirmed to me the commonality of the issue. It is not surprising in context to the story, since it is about his elder brother, a poet who did commit suicide. It's funny, because now I think of it, although I do believe Buddy in his praise of his brother as a singular and remarkable poet, I am less inspired by Seymour due to his inability to branch away from the predictable end of a poet. And, who is writing the wonderful stories that have engaged me? An author who (I discovered after a brief search) died of natural causes at the age of 91.

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