What difference does it make that I'm crumbling, that I'm suffering or thinking ? My presence in the world shall shake - as my big regret - some peaceful livings and it will abash the uncouncious and pleasent naivety of others, as my biggest regret. Even though I feel like my tragedy is for me, the biggest tragedy in history - bigger than the falls of kings or who know what waste in the bottom of a mine - still, I have the feeling of my nullity and worthlessness. I am aware that I am nothing in the univers, but I feel as if the the only real existence is my own. And if I were to chose between the existence of the world and my own, I would put aside the first, togheter with the lights and laws it contains, and encouraging myself to barge into the absolut nothingness. Even though, for me , life is a torment , I can't give up on it, because I do no believe in the transvital values in ordel to sacrifice myself for them. If I were to be honest, I should have to say that I don't know why I'm living and why I keep on living. probably, the key remains in the irational prodigy of life, which remains life without reasoning. And if there are only absurd reason for living ? But these can be called reasons ? This world is not worth sacrificing yourself for an idea or belief. How much happier are we today, if others have sacrificed for our sake and illumination ? What good and what illumination? If someone sacrificed himself for me to be happy right now, then I am more unhappy than he was, because I don't understand myself on building an existence upon a graveyard. I have moments when I feel responsible for the whole misery in history, when I don't understand why others shed blood for our sake. The whole history should turn to dust. Nothing in this world should interest me anymore; even the notion of death should sound ridiculous ; anguish limited and unrevealing, enthusiasm impure. life rationality, the dialectics of life the dialectics of logic, and not a demonic one, desperation minor and partial, eternity a saying, the existence of nothingness an illusion, fatality a joke.
When I think seriously, what role do these have ? Why set up problems, though light or accept shadows ? Wouldn't it be better to bury my tears in the seashore sand, in full loneliness ? I've never cried, because my tears turned into thoughta. And aren't these thoughts as bitter as tears ?
Cioran
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