I walk about hooded and cloaked. Sometimes I am all calm outside, sometimes all perturbation; sometimes all marble, sometimes all vodka. Inside? I know not myself: you tell me. But often I am reminded why I am an introvert: I hate people, and I wish I felt nothing. But most have no idea what a misanthrope I am. The joys of living in society do not exceed the pains of dealing with people. These aside, the only reason is the glory of God. Is that worth it? Lord, do not mock me. Dicam Deo, noli me condemnare.
It is passing strange, that it is by pain that I am at once attracted and repulsed by the world: by others’ pain attracted, by my own repulsed. I betray my feelings, and they betray me. Trahison, trahison. Dost thou mock me with remembrance of my misery? I wish to remember no more, as God remembers no more the sins that he has forgiven. Why must I have feelings, or why can I not leave with them? They do no good. I grant that they were created for good, as are all things essential to the nature of things; but though made for pleasure, for happiness, in an evil age they are an evil, bringing endless suffering: if life is nasty, brutish and short, let us not have such troubles to molest us. Sweet is sweet, but bitter is bitter indeed. All erdly joy returnis in pane.
When I have served my purpose, I do not mind departing; but when I have served my purpose, I do not mind departing. I find it perennially hard to see my value apart from what I do. I am what I do, for who can see what else there is, but through my deeds? God, yes, but how? Once I am finished – yes, am finished – it is not parsimonious for me to live longer: to put it blasphemously, it is finished. I should hardly have the motivation ever to take my life: what you will see me doing instead is to disregard it entirely.
That is, after all, the height of apathy. Or of some kind of irony. Dimittam adversum me eloquium meum. Well, you may discern some of the reasons I like to listen to Victoria’s Officium Defunctorum. All erdly joy returnis in pane.