I know that it will be the same dreariness, the same Nothingness, the same loneliness.
It is very, very lonely.
It is hope deferred and maketh the heart sick.
It is more than I can bear.
Why—why was I ever born!
I can not live, and I can not die—for what is there after I am dead? I can see myself wandering in dark and lonely places.
Yet I feel as if I would like to die to-day.
[March 13.]
IF IT were pain alone that one must bear, one could bear it. One could lose one’s sense of everything but pain.