1831

For a long time, I haven't written. Months have passed without my being alive, and I continue to endure, between the office and physiology, in an intimate stagnation of thinking and feeling. This, unhappily, does not rest: in rot there is fermentation.
. . .
For a long time, I haven't existed. I am extremely calm. No one can distinguish me from who I am. I felt myself breathe just now as if I'd done something new, something late in coming to me. I begin to be conscious of being conscious. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up to myself and again take up the course of my existence. I don't know if by doing so I will be happier or sadder. I know nothing.

(Bernardo)