Freedom is the possibility of isolation. You are free if you can withdraw from people, not having to seek them out for the sake of money, company, love, glory or curiosity, none of which can thrive in silence and solitude. If you can’t live alone, you were born a slave.
We can die if all we’ve done is love.
Bernardo Soares, The Book of Disquiet (Text 234)
thanks to fake poet
I don’t know how many souls I have.
I’ve changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I’ve never seen or found myself.
From being so much, I have only soul.
A man who has soul has no calm.
A man who sees is just what he sees.
A man who feels is not who he is.
Attentive to what I am and see,
I become them and stop being I.
Each of my dreams and each desire
Belongs to whoever had it, not me.
I am my own landscape,
I watch myself journey—
Various, mobile, and alone.
Here where I am I can’t feel myself.
That’s why I read, as a stranger,
My being as if it were pages.
Not knowing what will come
And forgetting what has passed,
I note in the margin of my reading
What I thought I felt.
Rereading, I wonder: “Was that me?”
God knows, because he wrote it.
To live is to be other. Even feeling is impossible if one feels today what one felt yesterday, for that is not to feel, it is only to remember today what one felt yesterday, to be the living corpse of yesterday’s lost life.
To wipe everything off the slate from one day to the next, to be new with each new dawn, in a state of perpetually restored virginity of emotion – that and only that is worth being or having, if we are to be or have what we imperfectly are.
thanks to tigerloaf
Follow your destiny,
Water your plants,
Love your roses.
The rest is shadow
Of unknown trees.
Reality is always
More or less
Than what we want.
Only we are always
Equal to ourselves.
It’s good to live alone,
And noble and great
Always to live simply.
Leave pain on the altar
As an offering to the gods.
See life from a distance.
Never question it.
There’s nothing it can
Tell you. The answer
Lies beyond the Gods.
But quietly imitate
Olympus in your heart.
The gods are gods
Because they don’t think
About what they are.
The only freedom the gods grant us
Is this: to submit
Of our own free will to their sovereignty.
We should do just that,
Since only in the illusion of freedom
Does freedom exist.
Ricardo Reis, or Fernando Pessoa
I light a cigarette and think of writing them,
And in the cigarette I savor my liberation from all thoughts,
I follow the smoke like a lane of my own,
For one sensitive, dexterous moment enjoying
The freedom from all speculation
And the consciousness that metaphysics comes from feeling out of sorts.
Then I fall back in my chair
And go on smoking.
As long as fate permits, I’ll go on smoking.
lady on the photo is Lotta Crabtree
A true San Francisco character,1868
Rather the flight of the bird passing and leaving no trace
Than creatures passing, leaving tracks on the ground.
The bird goes by and forgets, which is as it should be.
The creature, no longer there, and so, perfectly useless,
Shows it was there — also perfectly useless.
Remembering betrays Nature,
Because yesterday’s Nature is not Nature,
What’s past is nothing and remembering is not seeing.
Fly, bird, fly away; teach me to disappear!
I sleep. If I dream, I do not know on waking
What it was I dreamt.
I sleep. If I do not dream, I waken
In an open space
I do not recognize, because I woke
To what I still don’t know.
What is best is neither dreaming nor not dreaming
And never waking.