tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399282577773064439.post8891157539594059647..comments2023-06-11T17:29:23.054+03:00Comments on Cocosse | Journal: Τα ταξίδια | Fernando Pessoa Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger1125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1399282577773064439.post-53004474169647318992013-12-17T21:13:30.190+02:002013-12-17T21:13:30.190+02:00Stones in the road? I save every single one, and o...<br /><br />Stones in the road? I save every single one, and one day I’ll build a castle.*<br /><br />Everything I sought in life I abandoned for the sake of the search. I'm like one who absentmindedly looks for he doesn't know what, having forgotten it in his dreaming as the search got under way.<br /><br />Life is what we make of it. Travel is the traveler. What we see isn't what we see but what we are.<br /><br />We all have two lives: The true, the one we dreamed of in childhood And go on dreaming of as adults in a substratum of mist; the false, the one we love when we live with others, the practical, the useful, the one we end up by being put in a coffin.*<br /><br />Life is an experimental journey undertaken involuntarily. It is a journey of the spirit through the material world and, since it is the spirit that travels, it is the spirit that is experienced. That is why there exist contemplative souls who have lived more intensely, more widely, more tumultuously than others who have lived their lives purely externally. The end result is what matters. What one felt was what one experienced. One retires to bed as wearily from having dreamed as from having done hard physical labor. One never lives so intensely as when one has been thinking hard.*<br /><br />To live is to be someone else. Feeling is impossible if we feel today as we felt yesterday: to feel today the same thing we felt yesterday is not to feel at all--it's merely to remember today what we felt yesterday, since today we are the living cadaver of yesterday's lost life.*<br /><br />Once we're able to see this world as an illusion and a phantasm, then we can see everything that happens to us as a dream, as something that pretended to exist while we were sleeping. And we will become subtly and profoundly indifferent towards all of life's setbacks and calamities. Those who die turned a corner, which is why we've stopped seeing them; those who suffer pass before us like a nightmare, if we feel, or like an unpleasant daydream, if we think. And even our own suffering won't be more than this nothingness.<br /><br />Let's absurdify life, from east to west.<br />Let us play hide-and-seek with our consciousness of living.<br /><br />Life is whatever we conceive it to be.<br /><br /><br /><br />The Book of Disquiet / a factless autobiography / composed by Bernardo Soares / Assistant bookkeeper in the City of Lisbon / except where noted*<br /><br />.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com