Diary of a Madman, XXV

As of late, I find myself under unbearable strain. The commission that the future can have on the soul is indeed wrathful, mighty, and at the same time so very meek and petulant. The color has rightly drained from my world, the brick and stone, leaf and flower, cloud and sun, mountain and water of all this city nothing more than gray texture. I am Socrates, seeking his place amongst men but never accepted. I have encapsulated a moral vacuum within myself and find that it has greatly perturbed the principles to which I have hitherto attributed all the rigidity of stars. I have consistently failed to meet my standards, and now lie only the in shadows of my magnificent doubt. I have no qualm in embarking on a journey to revitalize my soul and seek, yet again, a meaning to this will-o'-the-wisp that we have named existence. Yet when? When shall I know?