I feel that the worst is still yet to come; that the real temptation which I await for is far beyond, advancing slowly upon me, heralded by delirious cries. And my miserable spirit is crouching for it, silently - a fascination of body and soul, the sharp withering horror of this misfortune.
The heart of prayer was not torn from me; it fell away of itself as ripe fruit falls.
I know this is no unusual trial. No doubt my doctor would say I'm suffering from a nervous strain, that it's very foolish to try to live on only a little bread and water, figuratively speaking. But I don't feel tired. Sometimes I wish I had to struggle against only myself... I think my courage would come back to me then. Occasionally I feel the pain in my chest. But it comes all of a sudden now. It doesn't wait from second to second as it used to...
If I ever yield to the temptation of sharing my pain with anyone, no matter who, my one last link with God will have been severed. And I think then eternal silence would begin for me.