Nausea

The mind of man, which he did not ask to be given, demands a reason and a meaning—this is its self-defining cause—and yet it finds itself in the midst of a radically meaningless existence. The result: impasse. And nausea.

Suffering is the origin of consciousness,” Dostoevski wrote

I make a great effort and turn my head

I have no taste for work any longer, I can do nothing more except wait for night.

I yawn, I wait for night to come. When it is dark, the objects and I will come out of limbo.
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Yes, that's it, that's just itùa sort of nausea in the hands.

am not in the habit of telling myself what happens to me, so I cannot quite recapture the succession of events, I cannot distinguish what is important

I am quietly slipping into the water's depths, towards fear.

Still, somehow I am not at peace: I have been avoiding looking at this glass of beer for half an hour. I look above, below, right and left; but I don't want to see it.

All that is nothing new; I have never resisted these harmless emotions; far from it. You must be just a little bit lonely in order to feel them, just lonely enough to get rid of plausibility at the proper time. But I remained close to people, on the surface of solitude, quite resolved to take refuge in their midst in case of emergency. Up to now I was an amateur at heart.