Can you move on, beyond doubt? Askant of a shimmurring sky: is this me, is this my voice, is this my heart? You can say: this is my blood, thus this is my spirit, and with some comfort tread onwards, but there is a malaise that hides in the code of the blood, a malaise you are quick to overcome—don’t they say(those ubiquitous theys) that strength lies in one’s power to overcome, to continue on? But what with all the strength in the world can be done to undo this constant malaise, not in the skin, but, almost mockingly, a part of the blood?—, you are quick to overcome this momentary rising of doubt, fore what happens when it stays, when you let it stay above the skin, and dive into the brain? There comes silence, there comes rage.
You attack the sickness, but it is sprent and it is dark, hiding always a place behind the place of attack. And rolling out into a scream, askant again of a shimmurring sky, there is no answer. Here begins hatred, hatred for the heart, hatred for the voice, hatred for me.
To bend before the malaise, and take all of the doubt, and to write no more? Let it unmaster you and plant itself the God of your own temple?Breathe forever its obscurity?
If there is not truth in overcoming, then how to continue? If continuing then begets long-lived hate, from out of that place of a heart’s darkness, then is it not truer to cease? Is all truth so fatal?