I currently feel unable, to transport my life further into the shadow sphere between inside and outside.
Maybe I let myself be discouraged to insist on this impertinence.
Maybe I don't have faith anymore.
This affects my diaries.
As for the leap from diary to literature: Blockage grows out.
I would like to clean up the channel and bring this to mind, what i since 2017 here
have employed. to clean up. Reduce the texts to a selection.
Not only do I lack the mental and cognitive strength to do so, but also the motivation:
Also, I'm actually shy at the moment, me with my own work, deal with their process.
I dread the encounter with my own disclosure. The faults.
Instead of this work, nothing takes the place of this self.
The certainty, that nothing lasts, neither a sunny day, still encounters a prolonged period of ease through diminished symptoms, but also hardly any literary work,
makes me seep into mud like a drop of the purest water.
Maybe this is the right depression: mind and hands tied, view of a drought, the interventions required, who are absent, while time is ticking. No waves, that trigger creativity and vitality through pain.
No depression of devotion: the absence of Nietzsche's star of creation.
Neither child, that plays with the sand, nor lion that hisses for diamonds nor camel that den
Purpose justifies and diligently trots.
‘Wegsehen wollte der Schöpfer von sich. Then he created the world.’ (Thus spoke zarathustra)
(3.10.2022)