August 1980 2:47 pm Tel Aviv

I feel quite ridiculous at the moment. Insecure of my recent stupidity. Laughing at myself with a queer smile, because while I acted in a rash and illogical manner, it was only out of an uncontrollable desire to do what I felt and knew to be right–only the timing made it wrong.

I just spent the last of my money on books, wonderful books I want to read and need to read–but books nonetheless I will now have to carry around. I’m very hungry and thirsty and have only money for my bus ride home and tomorrow’s bus fare to the airport. It was stupid because I do not need the books and could buy them in the states and will probably end up releasing them because I wish not to carry them. Wonderful books all the same. I must laugh at myself as an adult. A parent laughs at his child who has made a mistake in his attempt to make his parent proud of him. I suppose my superego is laughing at my id and ego, fully knowing that my ego has no real reason to be angry and my id–well, just that it should have known better.

I found myself in that book store fascinated by the wealth of ideas I wished to digest. I felt akin to those identities that lie behind the labels and book covers. The used books I eagerly bought were like friends I zealously picked up to keep me company on my possibly lonely journey. I think I will feel better if I just content myself to think of them as friends along for the ride as long as they are comfortable. I should not think of them as possessions I must economically grip and feel trapped or tied to forever.

I guess I do not need to be so worried.
This was my obsession I wanted to satisfy it.
It is my vacation.
It is my life.

Sitting on the bus, I begin listening to Sartre and talking to the world. I realize an existential truth about where I am – in myself – a very lucky human being. For all my abilities to feel sorrow, pain and extreme frustration whether physical or mental (and I don’t feel much physical or mental of any of the above compared to some) I have recently and intensely realized I am also lucky in that I see and feel much that is good — like my Yup friend said, “Think not of how much more there is to do, think proudly of how much you have done.”

I have done so much. My books NOW could stand alongside my new friends. Someday they will.

The question I ask is, I understand that other people experience similar feelings of frustration and pain, but do they also experience the intensity of my mental and psychological highs? Are there many people who are ever as happy as I occasionally am?

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