I am left to hurtle through my feelings, for my passions will not let me be. Thrown about on the inside as if my soul were coursing past the speed of sound, crashing into my will and my sensibilities — is this what I am meant for? For I cannot casually like something, but rather must obsess at every detail of it, cannot want something without being addicted to it in some way, to abuse it if I get the chance. I am worse than all or nothing: I am positive or negative infinity, with no middle ground at all. What I in ordinary day wanted to do I have forgotten, now, as what is before me commands my every attention: and I need not specify what it is, this time, because it is this way every time: like a madness that seizes me, which I know not where it comes, just to once in a while that it overwhelms my everythought, and my being is no longer in control, the throttle to desire and wondering let loose…. Though I do say this of it all: to let me feel too much, rather than nothing; too much life all calling all at once, than death’s still, where nothing can question.
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