The pains

My headaches have been pressing lately, and have prevented me from my scheduled writing. I am determined to press on today regardless of the pain. I must get things done.
I tried to get outside for fresh air today, in hopes of stirring my head and letting the breeze unravel the knot in my head, but it was of little use. All I felt were the knock of the cobblestones beneath my shoes sending tremors up my spine and into my head, and each seemed to tighten the strings in my head. After a few minutes I gave up, and retired to my bed.
L. said he's sending by Dr. W this afternoon to see how she might help, but we all realize these efforts are in vain. My pains seem to spring from the air and leave as much trace as any breeze. Destruction, certainly, but no ther sign. I resign myself to them.

Odd how the creative power at once brings the whole universe to order

Went downtown today to meet with Mr. L today, though he tends to be boring I find his taste in literature to mirror mine, and I enjoy hearing his opinions on the work I'm reading. I've been reading Don Quixote and I wanted his opinion. We were both of the same mind in it resembling more of a literary comic book than any serious work. Entertainment is first and foremost, with larger themes and principles filtering in by accident. How do such works become part of the literary cannon? I'm often quite confused by what people like and dislike, or find valuable or not. Why must some brillant works languish while mediocre ones are vaunted? It's of little wonder writing tears me to bits. I'm torn between writing what I believe has a purpose and an inherent beauty, and what others will enjoy. Blast this need for praise from others; it is the main force that holds back my pen. I must ignore my drive to please others and instead work to please myself. In the end I should be the only one that truly matters, although as I write that I want to cross it out; I hardly believe it.