On Solipsism Again

What is this feeling? This feeling is not desperate. This feeling is quite clear. The desire for change, destruction, transformation is associated with clarity and calmness. No frenzy, tears, wailing and gnashing of teeth, if desperation then a calm and lucid desperation. It comes in still moments and declares itself softly. It partakes of fear, but fear advances stealthily and comes as a whole, round, complete feeling, deep like a pool. What shows on the surface? There are no tears. At the worst, I hug the walls. I thought that despair would be accompanied by conventional anguish. Instead, it comes full and blank and almost comforting, it comes like a whitewash spreading from the roots to the summit of a mountain. It is like that clarity, that drunken clarity, that pause in the bustle of thoughts which enables you to see your surroundings as they are. I am keeping myself alive, for what?
Solipsism, the disease of infecting everything one looks at with one's subjectivity, so that it is instantly transformed into something warped and distorted, something bland and flat. And there is no product of culture that I cannot distort in this way. It's "the human condition" they say.
I left the flat and came back to the flat. I was feeling sorry for myself. Briefly washing up at the sink, I struggled to contain the feeling. I went to the livingroom, I put my forehead to the wall, caressing my brow, not allowing tears. Do I exploit these feelings and occurrences by recalling them, by re-enacting them in writing? By doing this, do I wear a mask, do I take pain and pantomime it on a stage, for cheap laughs, cheap applause, cheap pathos? The stirring up of false pity? That is part of me too: Playing to the gallery. This reflection on emotion is not the main event, or the thing itself. The feeling that can be described is not the essential feeling, not the all-consuming, important thing. That comes sourly and wordless, wordless because heedless of words, because pre-verbal, because riding on calm waves of overwhelming terror, and more, a purposive terror which tends always toward action. If only it could encompass or encourage stasis! Then I would be set for life; I could stay in bed. But I know it will not let me rest as I would wish. This is only a temporary rest; and it is this temporariness itself which disturbs me.