Not, To be able to express me for eight years longer. Not, To concentrate and discipline me for eight years longer on the meter, which I can continue with consistent hours of lying down. To be a woman only by eight years longer. I am, As I find out, not prepared for age. I was so busy being sick, So absorbed through these massive functional losses, into which I slid at the end of my thirties. Every time, When I pilgrimage to the places and locations, The same are, at least externally, I feel my inexplicable gap to everything – also my gap to my femininity- I dizzy when I thought of all the lost time, that I couldn't use, Because I was in bed, on the sofa, the floor, In the bath etc.. At the same time I feel this time, as if the years had gathered together for a few moments— For Hans Castorp, the first three days passed on the magic mountain like three weeks. Finally, seven years became his stay, The time was gone.
When nothing happens anymore, Slows the feeling for the time. There is a dead point, a standstill. And suddenly the time seems, whose characteristic is the uncertainty, With this disease, dissolve. It wouldn't even have been suitable for this disease, to describe life as a provisional. It is not made for a time, which is still coming, There is no later. I failed to live, Because the body did not raise the necessary energy. This omission has added up. Disprudanced me, as if I hadn'ticed, as if I had sinned …. maybe, Because I was still there. I even got old with the miserable thing. And even still has to die. My life was and is like something, that is in a safe or noble wallet. I can't open it, But I always had it in mind. And what you desire and cannot have, You can do badly away.
The (Die) I think less bad, than being altar. I will soon be dying, actually always …. refused. Because of the fragility and because there was no hold in this body, I looked around as a young woman for abundance and wealth. There was even a time once, I found there: I am rich! (But of course I had long since lost this wealth, and I was rich in mother's abdomen, I was rich at birth). No, I don't feel about my human being cheated, Not even so much about all the thousands of dewy morning, that I slept. Just for my a frausin. Lach. I always carried the shame on myself, In me and on me, Since I am a woman, But only now do I understand the ambiguity of this word. The agonizing meaning.
My focus is trapped by nature and ontologically immovable stuff, Like back then, As an eleven -year -old, When I was obsessive over the universe without God. Undoubtedly, to brut over it, What a woman should be at the end of her fertility and the long time later, And what a humanity is without God, Is not quite the same. How can it be, that I now, After so many years of the ancient end and a certain gross of gross modesty, Still only or again hedonist?! The humility comes to me. But you have to say too, that she went down pretty much with the decline of Christianity, here. In the illness there is no longer a single noble drop of respectability. And maybe there is a connection in terms of measures.
I would like to be a snake. Then I would skin myself now, Until something else comes to light! Maybe I would meander around my murderer's neck, that doesn't exist.