It is not restlessness but rest that feels like death.

 People are running from their thoughts, while I have drowned myself in mine. Every passing second I am certainly thinking of something. It never stops. And I’m not even complaining about it; it is not restlessness but rest that feels like death. Because I know this: if I stay still where I am, some betrayal inside me, one that perhaps never forgave me, will come and catch me, and thus this old friend from whom I’ve been fleeing, whose face I can no longer recognize, will overthrow the person I’ve become.