Diapsalmata

My grief is my castle, which lies like an eagle’s nest high up on the mountain peaks among the clouds; nothing can storm it down.

From it I fly down into reality to seize my prey; but I do not stay there, I bring it back home, and is an image of this prey that I weave into the tapestries of my palace.

There, I live as one already dead.

I immerse everything I have experienced in a baptism of forgetfulness unto an eternal remembrance. Everything finite and accidental is forgotten and erased.
Then I sit like an old man, grey-haired and thoughtful, and explain the pictures in a voice as soft as a whisper; and at my side a child sits and listens, although he remembers everything before I tell it.

Søren Kierkegaard