And so they all, each in his own way, reflectingly or unreflectingly, go on with their daily lives; everything seems to take its accustomed course, for indeed, even in desperate situations where everything hangs in the balance, one goes on living as though nothing were wrong.
— Goethe, Elective Affinities (quoted in Handke’s The Left-Handed Woman)
My screen starts to squirm and all the words I’ve written on it form cones that reach out to me. I fight them off and now I’m engaged in a violent struggle with my screen, my desk, my body and my chair.
Deep inside me there’s a perpetual seething, like the bottom of a geyser, and I keep hoping that things will come to an eruption once and for all, so that I can turn into a different person.
Perhaps you regard this thinking about myself as a waste of time – but how can I be a logician before I’m a human being? Far the most important thing is to settle accounts with myself!
My thoughts are tired. I am not seeing things freshly, but rather in a pedestrian, lifeless way. It is as if a flame had gone out and I must wait until it starts to burn again by itself.
— Wittgenstein (via here)
I’m nothing but the exterior of my body: skin, hair, nails, eyes. I go to the shops with a weightless feeling, being hollow inside. I head for the city hall on some obscure mission, with shopping bags I find hard to carry, and when I reach the door I crumple and wake up.
I’m drinking wine from a cracked glass. The wine runs down my arm and my legs. I vomit, pour more wine in the glass, drink, vomit, etc.