None of my experiences bear the stamp of existential struggle, life has become certain enough not to be less certain than to feel comfortable and happy, than that we face tomorrow with relief, and regret today having passed so quickly. This regret over time lost is the mark of modern man’s civic life. Yet, although my life has lost all existential struggle and I cannot tell one meaningfull event from an uneventfull life, because I am so bored with life that I am excited by every moment of being, despite this numbness of the heart, this ignorance of misery, which is pityful, despite so, I, like all man, see how we are passing in futile happiness an endless repetition of seconds, minutes, time. This absence of struggle is meaningless, as is the presence of happiness, as is the suffering of man, as is man, as is. Man the miracle maker, the creator of his own significance, like dogs, like flies, like a leaf, like the wind, which tortures the leaf, bends the tree, the tree staticly rooted in the earth, which absorbs the leaf, absorbs man. It is not hard to care, it is not easy to not care, it easy to see there is little to care, yet man cares at times, times that pass.
So my boredom, which is full of love, caring, excitement and happiness, and all its triviality bores me even worse. These fulfillments are hollow but they fill so many hearts. Can we really not live without such falsity, such absurd lies. We are dead leaves, dead leaves on fertile ground, and there few perceive this emptiness, because they are indulged in it, overwhelmed by the cloud, swallowed by the void that surrounds their lives in its myriad spaces.