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.It isn't a state of felicity, it is a state of contact.Oh, don't think that all this doesn't make me sick, in fact I find it so boring that it makes me impatient.But it resembles paradise, where I can't even imagine what I'd do, for I can only imagine myself thinking and feeling, two attributes of one's being, and I can't imagine myself just being and ignoring the rest.Just to be—that would leave me with an enormous need of something to do.At the same time, I was a little bit doubtful.The fact is that, just as earlier I had become terrified before by my entrance into what could develop into despair, I now suspected that I was again transcending things.Could I be enlarging the thing too much precisely to go beyond the cockroach and the piece of iron and the piece of glass?I don't think so.For I wasn't reducing hope to a simple result of construction and counterfeiting, nor was I denying the existence of something to hope for.Nor was I removing the promise: I was merely sensing, with enormous effort, that hope and promise are fulfilled at every instant.And that was terrifying, I have always feared being stricken by realization, I had always thought of realization as a final resting point—and I hadn't foreseen a situation where necessity is ever being born.And also since I was afraid, because I couldn't stand simple glory, that I would make it one more accretion.But I know—I know—that there is an experiencing of glory in which life has the purest taste of nothingness and that in glory I feel it to be empty.When living is realized, the question will be asked: but was that all there was to it? And the answer: that isn't all there is, it is exactly what there is to it.Only I still have to be careful not to make more of it than that, for if I do it won't be that anymore.Essence is a piercing insipidity.I'll have to "purify myself" much more just not to want the accretion of events.Before, self-purification implied cruelty for me, against what I called beauty and against what I called "me," without knowing that "me" was an accretion to myself.But now, through my most difficult fright I am finally moving toward the opposite path.I am moving toward the destruction of what I have constructed, I am moving toward depersonalization.I am anxious for the world, I have strong, definite desires, tonight I'll go dancing and eating, I won't wear my blue dress, I'll wear my black-and-white one instead.But at the same time, I don't need anything.I don't even need a tree to exist.I now know a modality that dispenses with everything—and also with love, with nature, with objects.A mode that dispenses with me.Even though, as regards my desires, my passions, my contact with a tree—they may keep on being for me like a mouth eating.Depersonalization like the deposing of useless individuality—the loss of everything that can be lost, while still being.To take away from yourself little by little, with an effort so attentive that no pain is felt, to take away from yourself like one who gets free of her own skin, her own characteristics.Everything that characterizes me is just the way I am most easily viewed by others and end up being superficially recognizable to myself.Just as there was the moment when I saw that the cockroach was the cockroach of all cockroaches, so too I want from me to encounter the woman of all women in myself.Depersonalization as the great objectification of oneself.The greatest externalization one can attain.Whoever is touched by depersonalization will recognize the other in any guise: the first step in relation to the other is to find in oneself the man of all men.Every woman is the woman of all women, every man is the man of all men, and every one of them could appear wherever humankind is judged.But only in immanence, because only a few people reach the point of recognizing themselves in us.And then, in the simple presence of their existence, revealing our own.What is lived of—and since it has no name only silence enunciates it—is what I approach through the great amplitude of ceasing to be myself.Not because I may then discover the name and make the impalpable concrete—but because I determine the impalpable to be impalpable, and then the breath builds again like in the flame of a candle.The gradual deheroization of oneself is the true labor that is performed under merely apparent labor, life is a secret mission.Real life is so secret that not even I, who am dying of it, have been given the password, I am dying without knowing of what.And the secret is such that only if the mission is finally carried out do I, all of a sudden, see that I was born entrusted with it—all of life is a secret mission.The deheroization of myself is undermining the ground beneath my edifice, doing so despite me like an unknown calling.Until it is finally revealed to me that life in me does not bear my name.And I also have no name, and that is my name.And because I depersonalize to the point of not having a name, I shall answer every time someone says: me.Deheroization is the grand failure of a life
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