It was impatient of my
dragging it around, and yet I could not find a place to lay it
down. Not in pleasant groves, nor in sport or song, nor in
fragrant bowers, nor in magnificent banquetings, nor in the
pleasures of the bed or the couch; not even in books or poetry did
it find rest. All things looked gloomy, even the very light
itself. Whatsoever was not what he was, was now repulsive and
hateful, except my groans and tears, for in those alone I found a
little rest. But when my soul left off weeping, a heavy burden of
misery weighed me down. It should have been raised up to thee, O
Lord, for thee to lighten and to lift. This I knew, but I was
neither willing nor able to do; especially since, in my thoughts
of thee, thou wast not thyself but only an empty fantasm. Thus my
error was my god. If I tried to cast off my burden on this
fantasm, that it might find rest there, it sank through the vacuum
and came rushing down again upon me. Thus I remained to myself an
unhappy lodging where I could neither stay nor leave. For where
could my heart fly from my heart? Where could I fly from my own
self? Where would I not follow myself? And yet I did flee from
my native place so that my eyes would look for him less in a place
where they were not accustomed to see him.
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