conclusion 3

"This lamplit room at the centre of all, the thought or the memory of it will not last even a week.
Other perspectives will intrude, banishing and replacing the memories in the conventional and expected way. And thus this room is revealed to be no centre at all, but a periphery, a detour about which little can be said.
Or rather, say as much as you want, fill a notebook with reminiscences, but all the speculations and even the surest statements will be proved wrong, the questions stated wrongly, each one open to contradiction, liable to be reversed. If only it were true that nothing could be said, that it was useless to speak, rather we must wretchedly annunciate lies and idiocies from here to the grave. And yet, with our eyes and moods, and joys, are we not grasping at truth?
The answer returns: yes. They are small but perfect truths, seen and apprehended as such. With words i cast myself into the void but i emerge speechless, content to look and know."

conclusion 2

"What appeared to me before as a mocking, empty arrangement of absurdities to succour fools and ghosts suddenly, with love, appeared to me as grand and significant, flushed with human nobility, a scheme to conjoin and support my love, or a mere background to its drama.
How foolish it was, after this insight, to have dwelled on the void, languishing in its isolation and emptiness like someone who stays overlong in a bath of filthy water, too disgusted to emerge, till in the end i inflicted these insights, gained from limitless empty vistas, upon myself, wallowing in the picquancy that may sometimes accompany the most abject despair.
What insights a dying man may have, since the depth of his misery may also be a height, a vantage point of freshness and honesty from which to view all of life, a distorting persepctive, to be sure, but also one of loftiness, distance, ultimately of freedom. For it is freedom that is sought in the act of surrendering, it is release that is desired."

Conclusion 1

"And yet, there is something there, something dark, pliant, soft and eternally opposite to me, something infinitely appealing, eternally renewing, a balance and countrerpoint to the struggles and discomfitures of my nature. Something soft, wise, silent, that knows no fear, some eternal, unfading goal. You can see it or sense it or smell it sometimes in evenings, smell it in the wind or catch glimpses of it on the dark blue horizon. It is soft, eternal, clean.
Not that there is something there i want to believe in, rather the hope that there is something there that wants to believe in me. The beauty of having an opposite, the absolute perfection of a fulfilled wish, the crumbling of the will as the iron of desire grants your wish, the utter beauty of receptiveness. What is more sublime, more filled with homely, primitive spirituality, more apt to command your emotional capacity with a full, bittersweet concoction, addictive in its clumsy mix of joy and sadness, deathly in iys potency, than to re-unite with that which was lost, to embrace your opposite, to surrender to darkness, not forsaking light but rather being confident that the light may shine more fully in its midst.
And this state, this unfading nature, is embodied in flesh in the world. To all flesh is given a light, each individual carries that state around with them in every pore and cell of their body. The feeling of flesh against flesh is numinous, and to unite is blessed."

part 6

"I cling moreover to the prejudice that the natural is how it should be, that one's conduct will in this way naturally effect the natural world, in interactions, in causes and effects, each rebounding and echoing onwards, in a fitting, but not necesarilly harmonious pattern. In other words, to be naturally unhappy is perhaps better than to force yourself into a false, fragile euphoria, arising from a faked confidence. And at least we can depend on unhappiness and pessimism; its stolidness and omnipresence acting as a solid base, predicated on the undivided self, a bulwark of sadness."

Part 5

"The difficulty is that i unfortunately have a heart to apprehend these awkward situations, and that i have also a keen mind to laboriously dissect them, looking at them from every possible angle, going too deep into detail, pondering too much on their imagined significance, seeing in too great detail their imagined subtleties. This is my nature, and therefore it cannot be a wrong thing, as opposed to a bad thing, or a harmful thing, which it may certainly be.
My struggle is whether to fully correspond with my own nature (subjective, uncertain, painfully self-contained) thought it costs me a huge amount of suffering, or to objectify, that is, falsify myself, for the sake of others, in order to appear happier and more self-assured, in short to lessen the load of self-consciousness, which seems most of the time to be inseperable from honesty, from "being yourself", from appearing as i actually am. My conscience dictates that i must appear at all times as i am, considering subjectively, from inside, whatever the cost in suffering, since the subjective viewpoint can so easily become a position of isolation, of torment, of pain."

part 4

"The desire to escape, give it all up, or go mad is always tempting... The impulse toward incoherence always flashes in the near distance, luring me like the song of a siren from the rocks, away, perhaps, from the unstable, sickening sea of my own uncertainty.
Yes, certainty is what i seek, a demand for meaning, purity, an answer. Stupid and unlikely though all this might seem. My disgust with events is such that i cannot bring myself to speak.
This is a stylised disgust and a spin on unhappiness... Yet it is the truth as i see it. Getting ever closer to the truth... an attempt to capture the nefarious truth.
"How was your weekend"? "Dismal." or "wretched, as usual". This is closer to the truth than some blasé word, a cliche, some positivity."

part 3

"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."