I feel mild anxiety coming on. The day is ending. Night is approaching. All our labours are ceased. It is a little death. We are thrown into the darkness where there is nothing to be done. We exist in a vast emptiness. Our existence is no longer justified by our productivity. We are more readily aware of the world that transcends the merely human, a world more real that the merely human.
A moment of nausea, disgust: a mild shock. Glancing around the flat, at the books on the shelves, I feel weary of it all. I feel weary of my life. It looks tired and of the past. I want to live differently. Or perhaps I am saying, I want to live. Life is now, not in things I once valued, wanted or needed; nor in the person, with his likes and desires and projects, I once was. These attempts to be someone, to forge an identity, were (are) never who I truly am.