Why does the mind always boil when we lie down? Why just in need of rest the mind insist in thinking about the last truths, planning everything, wanting to pass the ruler over life? Why does deeper rumination always occur in the absence of the sun? Why does consciousness always, like a bat, choose the night to wake up? Mysteries… Mysteries that accredit insomnia as driver of intellectual life —and, of course, accredit the bad mood in the mornings…
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I find it incredible how my absolute disenchantment with the world has not reverted into morbidity. In general, I am always in a good mood, laughing in thoughts, even though the experience already appears to me as exhausted. It is true: I am not humorous to many more than myself, but I judge it as almost a miracle to see me smiling, to desire an absolutely mediocre life from the point of view of the men of my time. Such incompatibility of tastes, habits, interests and temperament could more logically flow into sadness, anguish, apathy and despair.
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Happiness can only be the purpose of life in futile natures. First, because of its impossibility; second, for its smallness.What harm does it do to accept life in full? It is a vigorous attitude to greet the bad times, and more: to value them as formers of meaning.
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Nothing is more unbearable to me than judging! As I have long since realized that I cannot stop doing so — albeit impersonally — I have learned to cultivate silence. Silence that, to appear outwardly patience and serenity, implies an endless inner war. I hate judgment, and yet I judge all the time. I annihilate myself when I find me condemning conducts, and I condemn all, especially mine.How I would like to hang these terrible outbursts of judgment! But there is no end, nor peace, and I consider myself victorious mantaining a minimal aspect that refers to humanity.
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