The Book of Disquiet

To still not have died is enough for life’s wretches, and to still have hope .....

..... satisfied with dreams only when I’m not dreaming, satisfied with the world only when I’m dreaming far away from it.

This is one of those days in which I’ve never had a future. There’s just a static present, surrounded by a wall of anxiety. The other side of the river, as long as it’s the other side, is not this side; that is the root cause of all my suffering.

My entire life has been a struggle to adapt to this circumstance without being overwhelmed by its cruelty and humiliation.

Sometimes I think I must enjoy suffering. But I know I’d really prefer something else.

The words I write make me smile, but my heart is ready to break

Any emotion is too much for me

I walk not through the streets but through my sorrow.

Certain souls are capable of feeling heartfelt grief because the painted landscape on a Chinese fan isn’t three-dimensional.

Today the tragedy is visible because of an absence, considerable because it doesn’t deserve consideration. My God, my God, the office boy left today

How much I die if I feel for everything! How much I feel if I meander this way, bodiless and human, with my heart as still as a beach, and the entire sea of all things beating loud and derisive, then becoming calm, on the night that we live, on my eternal nocturnal walk to the seashore.