I’m rather jealous of Thoreau’s men of quiet desperation. I generally experience my desperation loudly, obviously, flagrantly.
Yes. I lead a life of loud, flagrant desperation. Some days I wonder if others will smell it on me the way dogs supposedly smell fear. Perhaps I believe that keeping it quiet will be unhelpful; that sharing is purging.
I have not gotten many wrinkles in middle age, except for two deep creases between my eyebrows. I don’t think that’s a coincidence. It’s like my face is trying to announce, “There are things to be concerned about, and I’ve been trying to address them by thinking really deeply about them. And being loudly desperate.”