How important can it be that I suffer and think? My presence in this world will disturb a few tranquil lives and will unsettle the unconscious and pleasant naiveté of others. Although I feel that my tragedy in the greatest in history - greater than the fall of empires - I am nevertheless aware of my total insignificance. I am absolutely persuaded that I am nothing in this universe; yet I feel that mine is the only real existence. If I had to choose between the world and me, I would reject the world , its lights and laws, unafraid to glide alone in absolute nothingness. Although life for me is torture, I cannot renoucne it, because I do not believe in the absolute values in whose name I would sacrifice myself. If I were to be totally sincere, I would say that I do not know why I live and why I do not stop living. The answer probably lies in the irrational character of life which maintains itself without reason. What if there were only absurd motives for living? Could they still be called motives? This world is not worth a sacrifice in the name of an idea or belief. How much happier are we today because others died for our well-being and our enlightenment? Well-being? Enlightenment? If anybody had died so that I could be happy; then I would be even more unhappy because I do not want to build my life on a graveyard. There are moments when I feel responsible for all the suffering in history, since I cannot understand why some have shed blood for us. It would be a great irony if we could determine that they were happier than we are. Let history crumble to dust! Why should I bother? Let death appear in a ridiculous light: suffering, limited and unrevealing; enthusiasm, impure; life, rational; life's dialectics, logical rather than demonic; despair, minor and partial; eternity, just a word; the experience of nothingness, just and illusion; fatality, a joke! I seriously ask myself, What is the meaning of all this? Why raise questions, throw lights, or see shadows? Wouldn't it be better if I buried my tears in the sand on the seashore in utter solitude? But, I never cried, because my tears have always turned into thoughts. And my thoughts are bitter as tears.
