And while I wait (wait for what?--certainty?) the weeks flow by like
water, and strength wastes away like a smoking candle....
Is one free to let one's self drift into death without resistance? Is
self-preservation a duty? Do we owe it to those who love us to prolong
this desperate struggle to its utmost limit? I think so, but it is one
fetter the more. For we must then feign a hope which we do not feel, and
hide the absolute discouragement of which the heart is really full.
Well, why not? Those who succumb are bound in generosity not to cool the
ardor of those who are still battling, still enjoying.
Two parallel roads lead to the same result; meditation paralyzes me,
physiology condemns me. My soul is dying, my body is dying. In every
direction the end is closing upon me. My own melancholy anticipates and
endorses the medical judgment which says, "Your journey is done." The
two verdicts point to the same result--that I have no longer a future.
And yet there is a side of me which says, "Absurd!" which is
incredulous, and inclined to regard it all as a bad dream. In vain the
reason asserts it; the mind's inward assent is still refused. Another
contradiction!
I have not the strength to hope, and I have not the strength to submit.
I believe no longer, and I believe still.
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