Insipid Chaos

Reading Kierkegaard has this additional meta-absurdity, that all one's deepest feelings of private chaos, even that muddle of confusion and pathos is hardly a variation on a theme, that one's  most bitter achievements of self-awareness fail at eloquence, that that inner soup of contingency one thought was bitter and foul is just insipid and nothing more. And perhaps that's the only advantage over K, the only worthy bitterness, to be ironic over one's irony! That's the only source of creative madness left, the only worthwhile contingency, the only fresh note to integrate into your own variations on those cursed themes. And even that... who knows?