I raise my head from the sheet of paper
where I'm writing … It's early still. It's just past noon on a
Sunday. Life's basic malady, that of being conscious, begins with my
body and discomforts me. To have no islands where those of us who are
uncomfortable could go, no ancient garden paths reserved for those
who've retreated into dreaming! To have to live and to act hoverer
little; to have to be here writing this, because my soul needs it,
and not to be able to just dream it all, to express it without words,
without so much as consciousness, through a construction of myself in
music and diffuseness, such that tears would well in my eyes as soon
as I felt like expressing myself, ever further into unconsciousness
and the Far-away, to the and but God.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 90
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