pseudo nihilist

My thought is me: that's why I can't stop. I exist because I think… and I can't stop myself from thinking. At this very moment - it's frightful - if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire.

I am large, I contain multitudes.

I have stitched life into me like a rare organ.

Is there no way out of the mind?

I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness.

I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

Existence is not something which lets itself be thought of from a distance; it must invade you suddenly, master you, weigh heavily on your heart like a great motionless beast - or else there is nothing at all.

For I do not exist: there exist but the thousands of mirrors that reflect me. With every acquaintance I make, the population of phantoms resembling me increases. Somewhere they live, somewhere they multiply. I alone do not exist.

Out of my ignorance, I called you a homeland and I forgot homelands are taken away.

I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more

I am from there. I am from here. I am not there and I am not here. I have two names, which meet and part, and I have two languages. I forget which of them I dream in.

Perhaps I am no one.

I exist, that is all, and I find it nauseating.

How much can you change and get away with it, before you turn into someone else, before it's some kind of murder?