from the book of disquiet
225
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I feel and forget. A nostalgia - the same one that everyone feels for everything - invades me as if it were an opium in the cold air. I have an inner, pseudo-ecstacy that comes from seeing.
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So many times, so many, like now, it has oppressed me to feel myself feel - to feel anguish just because it’s a feeling, restlessness because I’m here, nostalgia for something I’ve never known, the sunset of all emotions, myself yellowing, subdued to grey sadness inmy external self-awareness.
Ah, who will save me from existing? It’s neither death nor life that I want: it’s that other thing shining in the depths of longing, like a possible diamond in a pit one can’t descend. It’s all the weight and sorrow of this real and impossible universe, of this sky like the flag of an unknown army, of these colours that are paling in the fictitious air, where the imaginary crescent of the moon, cut out of distance and insensibility, now emerges in a still, electric whiteness.
It all amounts to the absence of a true God, an absence that is the empty cadaver of the lofty heavens and the closed soul. Infinite prison - since you’re infinite there’s no escaping you!
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