It is just a quote # 1

… the last view weeks have been, … pathetic,

I must admit. Some feeling got a toll on me again, it made its nest inside of my guts, some feeling I have certainly not invited. I feel numb, indifferent, deaf. Also the travels couldn’t change anything about this. There’s nothing I’m longing for more but simply disappearing from the surface of the earth when I think of the duties that I am going to face. Without ugly suicide and the like, simply in virtue of the very own thoughts dissolve in goodwill. With strenuous effort I manage to take care of some of my responsibilities. When I think of the thesis I panic. Since I am back in Germany, for exactly one week, I feel I am growing lonely. M. is in Serbia. I oscillate between my moms place and our apartment, watering the vegetable patch, taking care of the cat. At the same time I can feel how I am getting bigger and bigger. It’s not that I haven’t met people, I did. But they all seem so incredibly foreign to me. Especially, and most tragically, W. I feel I am not able to enunciate, I am not understood. Or are we all simply entirely numb? At least about some of them I know they’re struggling. But in the end we’re all alone. The prospect of only having survived about a third of my life is exasperating und makes me cry. Many tears in general those days. I am not very keen on communicating with other people anymore, to pretend something that isn’t. Seek for help from the shrink, for more than ten years, only to realize that they apparently can’t help me.

I am sitting at the balcony in the bathrobe. I haven’t left the apartment today. It’s chilly because it just had rained. The chilliness feels good. One of the neighbours has been sitting outside smoking a cigarette. I have smelled him often these days. I sleep a lot at the moment. Sometimes I don’t get up before 1 pm. At night I can’t fall asleep, I toss and turn in bed, my thoughts drone and so does my heart. I think of the nicest compliment I ever got: “Your body is somewhat androgynous…” I wallow in woefulness and self-pity. There is nothing that I like about this body. It is a nuisance to me, with all its greedy needs, its opulence and presence. When I look into the mirror I tear up. How, for heavens sake is this supposed to be me? And how, for heavens sake, is this me supposed to find its way around in this merciless world? I am lost and for unknown reasons it has always been like that. And into the bargain I don’t even feel that torrid hatred against myself. Now where used to be hatred there is emptiness, maybe a slightly quizzical perplexity. I look around myself but I can’t seem to be able to grasp the world. It seems to me that my being is a gigantic disappointment. I feel clearly how my energy is diminishing. How my strength to deal with all that nonsense diminishes. And yet I am haunted – whatever it may be, that haunts me – I have neither the strength to absorb it nor to flight forward. I am standing still and dig myself deeper and deeper into the mud. I am tired of having to explain myself. I am sick of not being understood, of not being taken seriously. I am sick and tired of trying to perform this play and of failing continuously. I don’t feel like entertaining myself and “making myself happy”. There is no happiness for me in this world. The preconditions of my personality are supposably poor; they’re so lousy that every tiny sprout will eventually perish over time. What keeps me alive is the fear of death, my reluctance to hurt family and friends and the certainty that I can kill myself anytime. Just as Sylvia Plath or Virginia Woolf, but without the genius, of course. But when I’m honest to myself I have to admit they’d all get over it. I am surrounded by mostly resilient people. Just what I said:

the last view weeks have been pathetic…

I have the feeling of existing at a completely wrong point in space and time. At the same time I know that we as humans qua our conscience and the knowledge of our mortality have to transcend our ego. Because there is barely anything more drastic than to accept the own insignificance. The pressure of the present is almost unbearable. The very point of time with all its potential and all its wasted possibilities. What’s with all this philosophizing? It’s a miracle that I am even still alive. Something inside of me is holding tightly on this life. Probably because it is still the only thing I have. Even if the non-existence, the complete emptiness, nothingness, seems so incredibly tempting there is nothing that is more disturbing.”

It is just a quote.

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