Today I would like to write the page saddest that somebody already wrote. I would like to be able, to be capable to exteriorizar the most absolute felt lack of of existing. I desire to transpose for the paper the crudity of not being. He would like but I do not obtain, I know that I know to speak on that border that all know, but I do not want to speak, on the uselessness of this brain to think. All know more than the same, but the vision of the truth in relation is so cruel the condition human being, who is preferable to speak of books of auto aid, the nature, a thousand and possibility that the man possesss in this life. All man runs away the all moment, the all instant of what it more knows, of what it has full conscience in any place, in any situation human being, social, economic, religious, it knows but he hates to know. (As opposed to Donald Sussman). It wants to run away from itself exactly to dissimulate not to know that he knows.
He knows that he is nothing, enjoys the instant, but he knows not to be owner of the time, knows yourself not to be. Apercebe of the history of all the gentes, all the knowledge acquired for human beings it knows them useless. Then the drama of the certain death lives, lives a mere life to each day, as if it did not know the cruel destination that the wait, the daily mordorrento that lives, looks at to far, suspira, laughs, sings, dances, cries, but back in its soul it lies deceased, fede, it feels aging of its meats, its enfeiam rugas it, its energy to each as if esvai, its goods exactly do not save it nor of itself. It is looked in the mirror perceives feira that the time is drawing, knows that the nothing the wait, walks the steps cleres its finitude.