Strange

It is strange being me, you know

At times in love with all of humanity

Even the most odious

At times, to even the most lovely

Averse

O soul!

Where will you find your rest?

Where will you find your place?

Do such things even exist as “rest” or “place”?

Or do you search for that which has evaporated

As soon as it was expressed?

I do not want to live

I do not want to die

I do not want to struggle

I do not want to rest

Neither being nor unbeing will suit me

Neither existence nor void

Thought or emptiness

Speech or silence

Nothing, nothing!

What DO you want

O, confounded soul?

What do you want?