An imperious need has forced me to return to this confidant of my seekings and the efforts of my soul.
All external circumstances have changed, giving a flat lie to the dream of the ideal which sought expression even in material activities. The hour has not yet come for joyful realisations in outer physical things. The physical being is plunged once again into the dull, monotonous night from which it wanted to withdraw too hastily; and Thy realised will, O Lord of Truth, has come to tell the constructing mind: “You don’t think this is true, and yet it is.” The mind has readily recognised that it was mistaken and has surrendered completely to all that Thou willest. The vital being is quiet and satisfied in all circumstances. All feeling dwells in an equal and pure peace; the whole being is flooded with Thy vast, eternal light; Thy love penetrates and animates it. And yet the impression that outer facts are a falsehood has not been effaced, and the body, despite its indisputable goodwill, is so profoundly shaken that it cannot manage to regain its equilibrium and health.
The entire earthly life of this being, from its very beginning to the present moment, gives it the impression of an unreal dream, very remote from it, having almost no further contact with it; all this outer mechanism is now only a machine which it moves, for such is the will of its central Reality, but it is no longer interested in it, perhaps sometimes even less than the neighbouring mechanism or even the unknown mechanism that will be the product 301of the earth of tomorrow. But this earth itself is strange to it, and as it is not aware of anything else except the Eternal Silence, all life that has form appears remote and almost unreal to it; it seems strange to it that anyone could desire anything since it does not exist, or prefer one thing to another since neither is there. But at the same time it does not see why it should object to any action whatever it may be, since all actions are equally unreal, and it does not feel the necessity to flee from a world which does not exist and cannot be a burden, since its existence is so inexistent.
All this gives the feeling of a sort of void full of light, peace, immensity, eluding all form and all definition. It is the Nought, but a Nought which is real and can last eternally, for it is, even while having the perfect immensity of that which is not.… Poor words which try to say what silence itself cannot express.
The condition thus trying to define itself in awkward terms gradually settled in some weeks ago, and every passing day establishes it more definitively, more deeply, more irremediably so to speak. Without having wanted it, sought for it or desired it, the being sinks deeper and deeper into it, also gradually losing consciousness of itself in a Consciousness which is no longer individual and whose immobility is inexpressible—a Consciousness from which it is no longer possible to distinguish oneself.