I've been thinking, Elisabet. I don't think you should remain at the hospital. I think it's harmful. As you don't want to go home, you and Sister Alma can move out to my summer place by the sea. Hmm?
Don't you think I understand? The hopeless dream of being. Not seeming, but being. Conscious at every moment. Vigilant. At the same time the chasm between what you are to others and to yourself. The feeling of vertigo and the constant desire to at last be exposed. To be seen through, cut down, perhaps even annihilated. Every tone of voice a lie, every gesture a falsehood, every smile a grimace.
Commit suicide? Oh, no. That's ugly. You don't do that. But you can be immobile, you can fall silent. Then at least you don't lie. You can close yourself in, shut yourself off. Then you don't have to play roles, show any faces or make false gestures. You think ... But you see, reality is bloody-minded. Your hideout isn't watertight. Life seeps in everything
You're forced to react. No one asks if it's real or unreal, if you're true or false. It's only in the theatre the question carries weight. Hardly even there. I understand you, Elisabet. I understand you're keeping silent, you're immobile.
That you've placed this lack of will into a fantastic system. I understand and admire you. I think you should maintain this role until it's played out. Until it's no longer interesting. Then you can leave it. Just as you bit by bit leave all your other roles.
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