You feel. What you feel is too much. It is such a quantity of feeling that you are completely overtaken. And this ‘feeling’ has no name, tag, definition. It takes over you. Strong, omnipotent, all-consuming and unsustainable. You cannot win it. All you can do is wait for it to take its course, leave you exhausted and empty… Oh why can you not remember better days? Why can you not understand? Why are you unable to keep your head up and push through this? Is it the waiter’s game? Are you damned to this non-existent fight for the rest of your days? Moreover, are the rest of your days doomed to be determined by this ‘feeling’? This emotion so complex and overpowering that you know, you know, you cannot conquer? Emotions, feelings… It is so so much… Much too much…





It’s been a while since we’ve met.
You’re slowly slipping into me again.
I thought this was through…
Yet here you are again, and you do not ask me: it’s not a choice, this is me and you.
I didn’t considering mine an escape…
But I was free ! Why are you taking me away again ? What is it you want with me?


Desperate Measures


Furious, she became. The madness in her was turning her blind.
Sadness. She is overcome.
Turn loneliness to rage, girl, but it will eat you whole, burn you right through as fast as a bolt of lightning.
She was going to be done by these emotions, be it one or the other. They complimented each other: both the consequence of her confusion. Now the question was by which hand she would go.
Fast or slow, eventually she would be no more.


With His Heart At The Foot Of His Bed

β€œHe awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others–the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.”
― Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated