The Book of Disquiet

Futile and sensitive, I’m capable of violent and consuming impulses–both good and bad, noble and vile–but never of a sentiment that endures, never of an emotion that continues, entering into the substance of my soul. Everything in me tends to go on, become something else. My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing, and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while. I note the slightest facial movements of the person I’m talking with, I record the subtlest inflections of his utterances; but I hear without listening; I’m thinking of something else, and what I least catch in the conversation is a sense of what was said.

We never know self-realization.
We are two abysses, a well staring at the sky.

— Fernando Pessoa, born this day in 1888

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