Near to the Wild Heart

''One day, after speaking at last, will I still have something to live on? Or will everything I say fall short of or beyond life? -- I try to push away everything that is a life form. I try to isolate myself in order to find life in itself. However I have relied too much on the game that distracts and consoles and when I pull away from it, I find myself brusquely forsaken. The minute I close the door behind me, I let go of things instantly. Everything that was distances itself from me, diving deafly into my faraway waters. I hear it, the fall. Happy and flat I wait for myself, I wait for myself to slowly rise up and truly appear before my eyes. Instead of obtaining myself fleeing, I find myself forsaken, alone, tossed into a dimensionless cubicle, where light and shadow are quiet ghosts. In my interior I find the silence I seek. But in it I become so lost from any memory of a human being and of myself, that I make this impression into the certainty of physical solitude. If I were to scream -- already without lucidity I imagine -- my voice would remain the same, indifferent echo to the walls of the earth. Without experiencing things I won't find life, will I? But, even so, in the white, unlimited solitude where I fall, I am still stuck between closed mountains. Stuck, stuck. Where is the imagination? I walk on invisible tracks. Captivity, freedom. These are the words that occur to me. However they are not the true, only, irreplaceable ones, I feel. Freedom isn't enough. What I desire doesn't have a name yet.[..]''