Perhaps I must despair, every once in a while. I am no solid thing. Being found, as I am — perhaps it is not ingrained in me all the way through; for I was lost, I think, for longer than that. I have become a sense of sureness to those who know me, the one who knows what is going on in the small things, and the overall character of the world. I am responsible. But even if this is my lot, I must in private buckle under the weight of some carefully placed feathers — in private, that I capitulate a little. For in public I cannot let them know how sometimes I am a hairsbreadth from collapse. Or perhaps I am merely being melodramatic. For it is true that in the real world, I will not allow myself the luxury of weakness. Vonnegut says we are who we pretend to me: if this is so, then perhaps I am stronger than that, after all. That only in private, in the quiet after hours, do allow myself this: to despair. Just a little, to think that it will not all come out alright... then to pick myself up, and go on with the rest of life.
