Today I was struck by an absurd but
valid sensation. I realized, in an inner flash, that I'm no one.
Absolutely no one. In that flash, what I'd supposed was a city proved
to be a barren plain, and the sinister light that showed me myself
reviled no sky above. Before the world existed, I was deprived of the
power to be. If I was reincarnated, it was without myself, without my
I.
I'm the suburbs of non-existent town,
the long-winded commentary on a book never written. I'm no one, no
one at all. I don't know how to feel, how to think, how to want. I'm
a character of an unwritten novel, wafting in the air, dispersed
without ever having been, among dreams of someone who didn't know how
to complete me.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 227
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