excerpt from an existentialist's diary

An existential malaise has fallen upon me of late, with its feverish yet indescribable woe and melancholy. Truly, how does one put into words the terror of reality and its semblant meaninglessness? How does one express the despair of existence when all pretenses are dropped and the chaotic banality of our frailty and suffering become so apparent, so oppressive? How does one look at the face of death and its unquenchable emptiness and then turn around and describe it to another? How does one communicate the anguish of their hopelessness or the infinite sadness of their loneliness to another any more successfully than a shade can impart their innermost thoughts to the living when each is separated by an insurmountable divide? How does one confide these things when the coarseness of words fails us, when we're unable to peer into one another's hearts and read the subtle language of the soul? They say that the eyes are a window into the soul, that pneumatic void. And what would that soul say if it could speak, that deep, dark abyss that lies at the heart of our individual beingness? What secrets would it share that our lips are incapable of divulging?