O why’d I e’er bury my own body? Why’d I cut my soul away? Why’d I wish to be nothing but my thoughts? I’ve hidden myself from the world all my life, by one means or another. I thought I’d have everything I wanted without eyes to see and hands to take.
God forgive me, for I know not whether I can forgive myself. I gave up everything for nothing.
I worried as a child what I was, who I ought to be. I never thought I’d found an answer, but never did I realize that I had destroyed myself in reaction.
I thought I had found some sort of truth in my own self abandonment, that me and my body were some sort of lie I had been told.
Like a mad man I tore out my eyes to see better. Like a fool I have done nothing but nothing my whole life.
I never knew anything, never knew better, never have known and know nothing.
I feel as if I should renounce my previous written works, for even if they hold any truth, I certainly didn’t know it, and wasn’t true to them as an artist should be.
I think on some base level I realized my sorry state, maybe not in mind nor heart, but maybe within the gut, how else could I have blinded myself so? Surely, it must be that I was ashamed of what a fool I was, for surely, I am ashamed of what a fool I am now.
I wonder, how could anyone stand me? One so absolutely filled with vacancy?
But the thing I circle and the question I delay with these tangents is what the hell am I to do now?
Perhaps I’ll have to confide in someone, be sincere and honest, and represent some truth of myself, and if it’s what must be done I hope I’ll do it, because, being truthful now, it would be the most dreaded thing I’d ever done.
...
I wish to know if there are any others who feel as I do. It’s a bad wish, I think hearing would leave me worse off, but I hope that my problems might be those of an artist, or a philosopher, that this terrible thing which I’ve done to myself, somehow, without my own knowing, can produce for me some meaning in my life.
Alas I know not how my story will end. What moral I shall learn, or if this story shall be my own tragic failing, of one who learned too late to learn anything at all, grasping and clawing for some sense of meaning or moral which in his blind and careless walking left out of reach and now is punished for his insolent and foolish ways.
From this either I shall gain some humanity, and care for my own being, or I shall be damned forever, and most cruelly I have been made my own judge.