in rare moments of self-consciousness our voice sounds strange, far away, not ours. It is the sudden perception of that great
truth: We are not ourselves.
"My pain is so deep, that it never had a cause nor does it lack a cause now. What could have been its cause? Where is that thing so important, that it might stop being its cause? Its cause is nothing; nothing could have stopped being its cause. For what has this pain been born, for itself? My pain is from the north wind and from the south wind, like those neuter eggs certain rare birds lay in the wind. If my bride were dead, my pain would be the same. If they slashed my throat all the way through, my pain would be the same. If life were, in short, different, my pain would be the same. Today I simply suffer from further above.
Today I simply suffer.”
— Cesar Vallejo
I feel with my own mind, suffer my own terrible pains, believe only in myself, in my own deep sorrow. This sorrow that no one understands and that I love, that I love through hatred and contempt for the human lie.
I howl desperately, but in vain. My unrecognized cry is dispersed in the endless desert. It roars, it thunders, but the only response is a mournful echo.
Nothing turns for me. No one thinks of me. No one recognizes me. Nothing waits for me. Nothing breathes for me. Nothing aches for me. Nothing cries for me.