I am inclined not to what is called “depression” but to what is called “psychosis.”

 I frequently enter and exit dark periods, yet I never stay in them for long. They’re more like a distant relative I visit often. To grieve or rage deeply over anything appears to me inevitably as a kind of deception, because such states arise only when one forgets the cosmic perspective and shrinks down into the merely human. I do not possess the arrogance of experiencing a feeling permanently for long periods. I see myself before all things, yes, but not as “superior” to all things. If I did that, I would see only myself. Yet I, though not out of humility, do not “see” myself at all—and my pride comes from precisely this, not the opposite. For this reason, it’s impossible for me to experience any feeling—whether good or bad—in a prolonged and consistent way. Except for the term “dissociation.” Because I know very well how to dig into existence down to its deepest points, bending and twisting reality, even annihilating it, rendering life lifeless or existence nothingness. I am inclined not to what is called “depression” but to what is called “psychosis.”