I see more clearly the objectivity of everything



The fitful evening breeze blows I don’t know what vague caress (and the less it’s a caress, the gentler it is) across my forehead and my understanding. I know only that the tedium I suffer shifts and gives me a moment’s relief, as when a piece of clothing stops rubbing against a sore.

Pathetic sensibility that depends on a slight movement of air to achieve what little tranquillity it knows! But so is all human sensibility, and I doubt that the arrival of unexpected cash or an unexpected smile counts any more for other people than a briefly passing breeze counts for me.

I can think about sleeping. I can dream of dreaming. I see more clearly the objectivity of everything. The outer feeling of life is more agreeable to me. And all of this because a slight shift in the breeze delights the surface of my skin as I approach the street corner.

All that we love or lose – things, human beings, meanings – rubs our skin and so reaches the soul, and in the eyes of God the event is no more than this breeze that brought me nothing besides an imaginary relief, the propitious moment, and the wherewithal to lose everything splendidly. 



Fernando Pessoa, 
Bernardo Soares, ''The Book of Disquiet'' 
(from Text 82)  
                       

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