My loss of interest in contemporary culture was only a symptom of a deeper malady – a disavowal of almost everything that had once fascinated or at least entertained me. Some crisis was announcing itself, a “dark night of the soul” carefully prepared by me history, it seems to me now, though I did not see it that way at the time. Stalking the all-too-familiar pavement of New York City, I felt I was skating across the thinnest coating of ice, and beneath that slick crust the void was waiting to claim me, to crush me in the impersonal oblivion that had terrified me as a child. A simple question confronted me – “Is this it?” – and kept intensifying its mocking force, whispering that my life was a lie.
Source: 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl, Pages: 25
Contributed by: HeyOK