Tuesday, October 25, 2005

from: A Book of Disquiet

For a long time, I haven't existed. I am extremely calm. No one can distinguish me from who I am. I felt myself breathe just now as if I'd done something new, something late in coming to me. I begin to be conscious of being conscious. Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up to myself and again take up the course of my existence. I won't if by doing so I will be happier or sadder. I know nothing. I raise my head and I see that over toward the Castle hill, the sunset taking place in the opposite direction burning in dozen of windows with a high reverberation of cold fire. Around those eyes of hard flame the entire hill has an end-of-day smoothness. At least I can feel sad and be aware that in this sadness of mine - seen with hearing - is mixed the sudden sound of the trolley passing by, the incidental voices of some young people chatting, the forgotten whisper of the living city.
For a long time, I haven't been myself.

-- Fernando Pessoa


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