Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Benefit To Drinking Cocnut Milk
12
(67) 06.20.1931
This is a day which weighs on me, as an input in prison, the monotony of it all. But the monotony of everything is nothing but the monotony of myself. Each face also the same as we saw yesterday, today is another, because today is not yesterday. Every day is the day it is and there never was a more equal the world. The identity is only in our soul (the identity with itself felt, even if false), through which all look alike and can be simplified. The world is sharp and distinct things loose, but if we are shortsighted, it is still insufficient and a fog.
My desire is to flee. Escape from what I know, get away from what is mine, get away from what I love. I would like to leave: not impossible to India or to the larger islands south of it all, but to any place, or village shrine, which possesses the virtue of not being here. I never want to see these faces, these days, and these habits. I'll rest, as a stranger, from my organic simulation. I feel the sleep that comes as life and not as a rest. A hut by the sea, even a cave on the rough side of a mountain, I can give it. Unfortunately, not only my will I can give.
[...]
from The Book of of Fernando Pessoa, ed. Feltrinelli
This is a day which weighs on me, as an input in prison, the monotony of it all. But the monotony of everything is nothing but the monotony of myself. Each face also the same as we saw yesterday, today is another, because today is not yesterday. Every day is the day it is and there never was a more equal the world. The identity is only in our soul (the identity with itself felt, even if false), through which all look alike and can be simplified. The world is sharp and distinct things loose, but if we are shortsighted, it is still insufficient and a fog.
My desire is to flee. Escape from what I know, get away from what is mine, get away from what I love. I would like to leave: not impossible to India or to the larger islands south of it all, but to any place, or village shrine, which possesses the virtue of not being here. I never want to see these faces, these days, and these habits. I'll rest, as a stranger, from my organic simulation. I feel the sleep that comes as life and not as a rest. A hut by the sea, even a cave on the rough side of a mountain, I can give it. Unfortunately, not only my will I can give.
[...]
from The Book of of Fernando Pessoa, ed. Feltrinelli
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)