Woke up this morning with the feeling that I had forgotten what the world is like. I sat up in bed for a few minutes just staring into a picture frame before me, and at all the books on my shelf, and I could not recall what life was about. Perhaps everyday requires renewed determination, and I will have to determine what life will be about today; but I don’t want to determine anything; I want to forget of life’s existence. I want to puncture a hole in deep space and let everything be swallowed up.

Life is such a curiosity; one moment it flourishes with hope, and in another it blackens with emptiness.

Nothing gives me pleasure anymore; not even a goblet of the world’s finest wine. Which reminds me, if someone asks for water and you give him a goblet of the world’s finest wine, he will toss it away; because he had asked for water and not wine. Pleasure consists of getting what you want, and not what is excellent in quality. And presently, there is nothing that I want.

Someone asked me if thought could exist without language. And I said certainly. For just consider what we call ‘intuition’. Intuition is quite rightly a thought that eludes apprehension by language – there is no way of describing an intuition. Yet, we do not say that intuition is a thoughtless nothing.

Why am I such a babbler? Why do I babble all day long?

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