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