Thoughts are born at the back of me, like sudden giddiness, I feel them being born behind my head. I am the one who pulls myself from the nothingness to which I aspire: the hatred, the disgust of existing, there are as many ways to make myself exist, to thrust myself into existence.
At this very moment, it's frightful, if I exist, it is because I am horrified at existing. My thought is me: that's why I can't stop.
Because that's still a thought." Will there never be an end to it? I mustn't think that I don't want to think. If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke. How serpentine is this feeling of existing, I unwind it, slowly. But though I am the one who continues it, unrolls it. The body lives by itself once it has begun. For example, this sort of painful rumination: I exist, I am the one who keeps it up. It's worse than the rest because I feel responsible and have complicity in it. Then there are words, inside the thoughts, unfinished words, a sketchy sentence which constantly returns: "I have to fi. They stretch out and there's no end to them and they leave a funny taste in the mouth. “I jump up: it would be much better if I could only stop thinking.
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