I am unable to apprehend what even motivates my continued existence any longer. I must assume it is simply the survival instinct. The only question that remains is whether this was always the sole driver of all my activity, or if I have lost some kind of higher, purer will. I do sense that I have lost something of the sort, but I do not believe I ever possessed any semblance of "passion" for life in general, so I conclude that what I have given up is only the illusion I once maintained that life could be good in some abstract sense. Since all my experiences now refute this notion, it is no longer possible to keep up that facade.

That is not to say that I have not had "good" moments, which I certainly have, but only that what once would have been good is no longer perceived as such; everything simply acquires a neutral or slightly negative quality. The purest ecstasy of childhood is dead. There is only a beige-tinted emptiness, which does not even take on the quality of sadness or despondency because any meaning I would have once attached to that feeling is gone. It just is as it is, and there is no possible reinterpretation of the feeling. In fact, "feeling" has become a misnomer for sensation - "feeling" implies interpretable sensation, sensation with some logical corresponding thought, but I have not been able to construe any sensation in recent memory. The events that happen to me do not form any kind of coherent narrative, such that my life is a series of non sequiturs. The events themselves do not feel like they happen to me. Nothing happens. I am not a recipient, beneficiary, participant, or victim of anything. I just watch myself perform actions as an automaton would.