"The problem now, as opposed to before, is that i find myself increasingly unable to bear the burden, so that the feeling inside is palpable and desperate, something that cries out for remedy. This impedes the normal flow of my life, interferes with my pleasures, distorts my persepectives on every issue, even blurs my sight so that i cannot regard objects in their true light, or be an accurate judge of events. It is not merely, as formerly, a general malaise that can be sat on, suppressed, but a kind of unease and disorientation that begins to intrude into every corner of my life, infecting everything with despondency and cynicism. A quiet moment, an hour when i can no longer read or otherwise amuse myself, and misery descends... It is felt physically, as a pain, as a kind of madness, and all this engendered by desire, inescapable desire. Beauty, desire, failure... I generalise these concepts, maybe in an attempt to rationalize. To placate myself, to stem the rising inner tide that threatens to suffocate all outer meaning, i have endless recourse to the drug of memory, though the morass of contradictory emotions awakened by these puts me alternately into a state of bliss or despair, and ends by repulsing me.
The upshot of all this is that i am compelled toward action."
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