If there’s a better articulation of human conflictedness/inner turmoil, I haven’t read it. From Richard III:
Have mercy, Jesu! – Soft. I did but dream. –
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! –
The light burns blue. – It is now dead midnight,
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh
What do I fear? Myself? There’s none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No – yes, I am:
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why –
Les I lack revenge. What, myself upon myself!
Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For only good
That I myself have done unto myself?
Oh, no! Alas I rather hate myself!
I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not!