April 11, 2008

The Book of Disquiet, text 60

A long week that crept up on me like a kick to the back of the knees. The week after my birthday [38th] and it's like time has cranked up another gear. Anyway, Friday night, beer, more Pessoa.

I live always in the present. I know nothing of the future and no longer have a past. The former weighs me down with a thousand possibilities, the latter with the reality of nothingness. I have neither hopes for the future nor longings for what was. Knowing what my life has been up till now - so often contrary to the way I wished it to be- what assumptions can I make about my life except that it will be neither what I presume nor what I want it to be, that it will be something that happens to me from outside, even against my own will?
Text 60

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