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.
