The state of adulthood, then; sobriety, neutrality, barely concealed misery? I am driven back upon myself over n over, into a position of complete subectivity, which to me is identical with freedom, using the self as the only barometer and authority, acting and deciding with complete integrity, being honest to oneself above all else. Acting thus completely in accordance with my subjective, ephemeral whims and shiting viewpoints, i find, more often than not, i reach a position of tormented isolation, as though, by acting honestly, i have merely imprisoned myself in a straitjacket. From this position also springs what i have mentioned above: horrible world-weariness where everything appears to me dull and flat, or things i ought to rejoice in appearing as mere irritants.
Perhaps, though, this position of torment, pain, one might almost call it an illness, is only the old position, the natural one common to every man since men were men. Perhaps it is truly the human condition. What then of the people who seem content, quite glad to live and work and love and die in the world, not reflecting much on its vagaries, or protesting? Is it merely that they are unfeeling and insensitive, stupid? Or do they too have moments of uncertainty, late at night lying in bed, do they go through their own agonies?
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