Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.
My ambition was to negate. The world, whether dense or hollow, provoked only my negations. When I was supposed to be awake, I was asleep,-when I was supposed to speak, I was silent,-when a pleasure offered itself to me, I avoided it.
My hunger, my thirst, my loneliness and boredom and fear were all weapons aimed at my enemy, the world. They didn’t matter a whit to the world, of course, and they tormented me, but I got a gruesome satisfaction from my sufferings. They proved my existence. All my integrity seemed to lie in saying No.
Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood.
Friend, friend of mine,
I’m gravely ill, I’m sickening.
I’ve no idea what causes me such pain.
Is it the wind
Over empty wasteland whistling,
Or alcohol denuding,
Like an autumn grove, my brain?
I am learning how to compromise the wild dream ideals and the necessary realities without such screaming pain.