related-thread:: [[The Self Is Contagious]]
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My Thoughts
- This book was sitting in my To-Read list for 2 years and finally decided to read and the experience is so so…..I can’t explain.
- This book – or I’d like to phrase “pile of broken thoughts and vague anxieties” – feels like something that has resonated to my soul after a long time. It feels [[Fernando Pessoa]] is rather narrating my own life surfing between [[Existential loneliness]] to whole lot of [[Existential Kink]].
- After such a long time, after [[Franz Kafka]], it feels so surreal that there was a human a century ago or so that felt so much emotions and thoughts and existential crisis, that it made me cry in a lot of journal entries he has put forward. I wish I could hug him. It feels almost as if I got reincarnated or something. WTF.
- I wish someone could hugged this guy. Best feeling is nobody realizing all your prose. Because it’s a fundamental coping mechanism to exist. How can someone from last century feel so real and tangible to touch with my soul. The moment I saw the text :: It sometimes happens, more or less suddenly, that in the middle of my sensation I’m overwhelmed by such terrible weariness of life, that I can’t conceive of any act that can relieve it. Suicide seems a dubious remedy..and natural death… This weariness makes me long for something far more horrifying and profound.. never to be existed at all, it gave me goosebumps because it is exactly the kind of words I had written in my journal entry (or probably a big pile of broken thoughts over the years). There’s so much overlap in what I process the thoughts on daily basis to the larger [[Indefiniteness of life]] in general to various narratives of my soul either serious or sarcastic, so much overlap. I can’t explain this feeling.
- Some bits I found deeply resonating with my soul:
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It sometimes happens, more or less suddenly, that in the middle of my sensation I’m overwhelmed by such terrible weariness of life, that I can’t conceive of any act that can relieve it. Suicide seems a dubious remedy..and natural death… This weariness makes me long for something far more horrifying and profound.. never to be existed at all.
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We never love anyone. What we love is the idea of we have of someone.
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I write to forget about my life
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I’m nothing but a vague nostalgia. Not for the past, not for the future…but for the present…anynonumos, unending, unintelligible
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Notes & Highlights
- I ask of very little of life
- “you’ve been exploited..” In the life since we must all be exploited by vanity, Glory, resentment, envy…
- Vascos, the boss: symbol of life itself. Banality of life. Office building life, and 4th floor room as art.
- I ask of very little of life
- “you’ve been exploited..” In the life since we must all be exploited….by vanity, Glory, resentment
- Vascos, the boss: symbol of life itself. Banality of life. Office building life, and 4th floor room as art.
- I’m the size of what I see
- The world is a big confusion
- Perfection never materializes
- I’m one of these souls women say they love but never recognize they need us
- The essence of my life and soul is to never be a protagonist. I don’t have any idea of myself
- Everyone has their alcohol. To exist is alcohol enough for me
- We never love anyone. What we love is the idea of we have of someone.
- I write to forget about my life
- Everything is in us.
- We never escape our sensations
- It sometimes happens, more or less suddenly, that in the middle of my sensation I’m overwhelmed by such terrible weariness of life, that I can’t conceive of any act that can relieve it. Suicide seems a dubious remedy..and natural death… This weariness makes me long for something far more horrifying and profound.. never to be existed at all.
- Some have great dreams they never accomplish. Some don’t even have dreams
- Our souls great anxieties are always cosmic cataclysm, upsetting stars around us and sun bearing offcourse
- I’m like a story someone told
- My life is as meaningless as the broken public clock
- Sinus…
- ”I lose myself if I find myself. I doubt what I find, and think that I don’t have what I’ve obtained. I sleep as if I were out for a walk, but I’m awake. I wake up as if I’d been sleeping, and I don’t belong to myself.
- Life is essentially a state of sleeplessness, and everything we think or do is a lucid startlement.
- I’d be happy if I could sleep. This is the opinion I have at this very moment, because I can’t sleep. The night is an immense weight on my back. I feel as if the concepts of ‘fate’ and ‘God’ are hovering over me, and only because I can’t breathe do I imagine them to be real.
- Yes, I’d be happy if I could sleep. I sleep, it’s true, but I don’t sleep. I sleep the way the landscape sleeps, or the way it rains in the distance. There’s a backdrop of nothingness behind me.
- To sleep! To be nothing! To be able to surrender, with the body’s unconscious cooperation, the soul’s vague offering! To be not even a stray dog, who can at least sleep on the roadside! To be not even the root of a tree, or the wheel of a wagon, which can’t sleep but also can’t wake up!
- To be nothing, to be the vague chaotic soul of the world, feeling the body of the universe but not feeling it!”
- I’m nothing but a vague nostalgia. Not for the past, not for the future…but for the present…anynonumos, unending, unintelligible -