Knowing how easily even the smallest things torture me, I deliberately avoid contact with them. A cloud passing in front of the sun is enough to make me suffer, how then should I not suffer in the darkness of the endlessly overcast sky of my own life?
I like to think, because I know it won't be long before I stop thinking.
I don't know what I feel or what I want to feel. I don't know what to think or what I am.
Do not make the infantile mistake of asking the meaning of things and words. Nothing has any meaning.
But the horror that's destroying me today is less noble and more corrosive. It's a longing to be free of wanting to have thoughts, a desire to never have been anything, a conscious despair in every cell of my soul's body. It's the sudden feeling of being imprisoned in an infinite cell. Where can one think of fleeing, if the cell is everything?
Only unhappiness raises us up — and the tedium we draw from that unhappiness is as heraldic as being the descendant of distant heroes.