jason00454

It would have been better, perhaps, if you would have stayed in the darkness, and your heart, without any limits, had tried to be the heavy heart of everything indistinguishable. Now you have pulled yourself together; you see yourself end in your own hands; from time to time, with an imprecise movement, you re-draw the outline of your face. And inside you there is hardly any room; and it almost calms you to think that nothing very large can enter this narrowness; that even the tremendous must become an inner thing and shrink to fit it's surroundings. But outside----outside there is no limit to it; and when it rises out there, it fills up inside you as well, not in the vessels that are partly in your control or the phlegm of your most impassive organs: it rises in your capillaries, sucked up into the outermost brances of your infinitely ramified being. There it mounts, there it overflows you, rising higher than your breath, where you have fled as if to your last refuge. And where will you go from there? Your heart drives you out of yourself, your heart persues you, and you are already almost outside yourself and can't get back in. Like a beetle that someone has stepped on, you gush out of yourself, and your little bit of surface hardness and adaptability have lost all meaning.