je ne suit qu’un songe —I am but a dream..
25 nov 1831
What do I lack most?
Do I lack the words to describe my emotions,
to articulate my thoughts?
Do I lack the emotions that bring words together?
Do I lack ideas to summon words at all?
Or—do I mostly lack myself?
Do I lack being myself?
What is it that I am missing, within me?
I don’t know.
(My favorite sentence—
perhaps the only truth I’ll ever hold.)
In the beauty of not knowing,
madness, maybe,
will be my doom.