Lately I’ve been
thinking, that is if I am still capable of critical thinking in the sense I put
in critical. I’ve become everything I
was afraid of. I’m a prosaic person. I can’t feel. I can’t think. I can’t live.
I just go on – day in, day out. There’s nothing for me. All I think about is
the past. It seems much better than it really was I guess. But in my worst
moments I did things – I took hold of the immense feeling that conquered my
being and I translated it on a piece of paper. I read (with a feeling). I made
photos. I was really interested in the world, even though it was a morbid
fascination. Now… there’s nothing. Once I wrote that everything is grey. Well,
it wasn’t. Now I know what grey is. I know I have to find myself again but it’d
be a long journey. And even if I do, I’m not sure if I would be capable of the
feelings I had a couple of years ago. Is happiness a disease?
