I am weary of self—always self. But it must be so.
My life is filled with self.
If my soul could awaken fully perhaps I might be lifted out of myself—surely I should be. But my soul is not awake. It is awakening, trying to open its eyes; and it is crying out blindly after something, but it can not know. I have a dreadful feeling that it will stay always like this.
Oh, I feel everything—everything! I feel what might be. And there is Nothing. There are six tooth-brushes.
Would I stop for a few fine distinctions, a theory, a natural law even, to escape from this into Happiness—or into something greatly less?
Misery—misery! If only I could feel it less!
Oh, the weariness, the weariness—as I await the Devil's coming.
