/lit/ - Literature

I've been engaged in a process of deep self-reflection through literature for 20 years. My end goal has been to understand the nature of reality and understand the nature of my self to the fullest of my abilities.
This project has lead me to do some crazy things, and believe some crazy things. With each layer of falsehood I peeled away reality became abstractly darker, and my sense of self began dissolving into an unstable vision of a creature ruled by cold and calculating subconscious genetic impulses.
One day I became an anarchist, with a heart full of love and compassion for every woman and man. Later I would become a fascist and a racist. Later still an ever-shifting political Frankenstein until all political thought showed itself to be nothing but the rotten toiletry of my ossified entombment. I rid myself of those soiled rags then.
Without a higher ideal I found myself wanting for meaning. But there is none. Then I held on to the hope that there could be hope for meaning. There wasn't any. Every foothold I found was built from wet clay. The more firmly I stood, the quicker my descent became. I had nothing to hold on to.
Finally, today, I am reduced to my base animal form, yet horrifically aware of my own motivations and those of the rest. The heartless cruelty I once aimed to end is simply what I am now. I am like all the rest. Lazy, selfish, scheming. Incapable of love. But also incapable of the delusions that motivate us. I broke myself.
I don't want to help anymore. I don't want to muddy the waters with any sort of false hopes. I take joy in the pain of others because I am an animal like the rest. I don't want to help. I don't want to make the world better. I don't want to love more. I don't want to pretend anymore. All I see around me are desperate faces choosing to cower in fear or lie to themselves. Anything to stop themselves from seeing. I have no feelings about this. I wonder how I can take from them.
I consume heroin now, in a studied and safe amount. I bring myself to orgasm. I go to work. My bank account fills..I will soon retire to fill my days with my modest heroin habit, next to a creek, in my small dark house, waiting for death.

Anyways, do y'all know some books for this feel?