I stopped in the middle of that building and I saw the sky. I saw the things that I love in this world. The work and the food and time, time to sit and smoke. And I looked at the pen and said to myself, what the hell am I grabbing this for?
Why am I trying to become what I don’t want to be? What am I doing in an office, making a contemptuous, begging fool of myself, when all I want is out there, waiting for me the minute I say I know who I am! Why can’t I say that, Willy?
Soon after we begin living we become aware of the confines of our prison. It takes us 30 years at the most to recognize the limits within which our possibilities will move. We take stock of reality, which is like measuring the length of the chain which binds our feet. Then we say: ‘Is this life? Nothing more than this? A closed cycle which is repeated always identical?’ This is a dangerous hour for every man.
Jose Ortega y Gasset- Meditations on Quixote
Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, becoming totally bankrupt by the age of 30 or 35? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why?
Most of the time, most days, I feel nothing. I don’t feel anything. It’s so boring. I wake up and think, again, really? I have to do this again? And what I really don’t understand is how come everyone else isn’t screaming with, with boredom, too, and I try to find ways to make myself feel something. More, and more, and more, but it doesn’t make any difference. No matter what I do, I don’t feel anything. I hurt myself; it doesn’t hurt. I buy what I want; I don’t want it. I do what I like; I don’t like it. I’m just so bored.