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Black Books

You say that I am still on the surface? There, where it is still loud, still too much noise. I need sharp ears?

I lament my hearing.

I still speak too much about myself? How can I do otherwise?

One could also say that I speak too little, since the words that could describe the great pain do not want to cross my lips.

I understand that one should not speak about this-of the most holy, where the fullness of God shines.

It is now cold and rigid in me, a blinking surface of metal, impervious, smooth.

Do I speak too much, too much of the outside?

Do I speak to the metal wall?

Should I perhaps place my ear on it, to hear who speaks behind it, if anyone at all actually speaks behind this gruesome cold?

Do I like being reflected in this metal surface?

What shamelessness would not be entrusted to the human being?

It would again be a carnival piece.

Why actually do I want to speak?

I certainly don’t want to hear.

Yet above all I ought to listen.

Will the vanity of speech not leave me?

And am I delighted by the echo of my voice?

Truly I am not deep enough, not even in pain, of which nothing is to be said. Damn, why must I mention it?

Shallow surface, so it is, the rage of impotence.

I am damned.

My heart is cut off from myself.

No more access to life.

Where are you, source?

How deeply buried, covered with pain!

Yes-empty-empty as hell.

My life has crossed over and I remain.

Where do I find you?

I am cut off from myself, a hanged man who fell from the bough.

And should I begin to live thus? ~Carl Jung, The Black Books, Vol. VII, Page 205