I just Googled this, and found it on my blog, in the comments of a blog post from some years back:
"…something is wrong here, if it was the end I would not so much mind, but how often I have said, in my life, before some new awful thing, It is the end, and it was not the end, and yet the end cannot be far off now, I shall fall as I go along and stay down or curl up for the night as usual among the rocks and before morning be gone. Oh I know I too shall cease and be as when I was not yet, only all over instead of in store, that makes me happy, often now my murmur falters and dies and I weep for happiness as I go along and for love of this old earth that has carried me so long and whose uncomplainingness will soon be mine. Just under the surface I shall be, all together at first, then separate and drift, through all the earth and perhaps in the end through a cliff into the sea, something of me.
It's by Beckett. Samuel Beckett. I think of it sometimes.
My blog is so embarrassing. Many people request in their wills that their letters and diaries be shredded when they die, because not even death can expunge the shame and embarrassment should such things be made public.
This is why the internet is such a bad idea. This amongst other reasons.
Anyway, must go to bed.
