"I don´t know the meaning of this journey I was forced to make, between one night and another night, in the company of the whole universe. I know I can read to amuse myself. Reading seems to me the easiest way to pass the time on this as on other journeys. I occasionally lift my eyes from the book where I am truly feeling and glance, as a foreigner, at the scenery slipping by-fields, cities, men and women, fond attachments, yearnings-and all this is no more to me than an incident in my repose, an idle distraction to rest my eyes from the pages I´ve been reading so intently.
Only what we dream is what we truly are, because all the rest, having been realized, belongs to the world and to everyone. If I were to realize a dream, I´d be jealous, for it would have betreayed me by allowing itself to be realized. ´I´ve achieved everything I wanted,´says the feeble man, and it´s a lie, the truth is that he prophetically dreamed all that life achieved through him. We achieve nothing. Life hurls us like a stone and we sail through the air saying, ´Look at me move.`
Whatever be this interlude played out under the spotlight of the sun and the spangles of stars, surely there´s no harm in knowing it´s an interlude. If what´s beyond the theatre doors is alife, than we will live, and if it´s death, we will die, and the play has nothing to do with this.
That´s why I never feel so close to the truth, so initiated into it´s secrets, as on the rare occasions when I go to the theatre or the circus: than I know that I am finally watching life´s perfect representation. And the actors and actresses, the clowns and magicians, are important and futile things, like the sun and the moon, love and death, the plague, hunger and war among humanity. Everything is theatre. Is it truth I want? I´ll go back to my novel..."
Ah! All of my writings are just Pessoa echoing through my soul! The moment I met him, I knew no landscape could cheer my heart. I am as bright as day, with a smile that betrays sincere happiness. Why then, when I compose, do I reek of blues? Who placed this soul here and wrote these lyrics? Who taught me minor chord progressions and the temptation of irresolution? You´ve played a love story so many times, you think you wrote it. And of the love stories you have written? Have they been so tragic? Has not every lovc been another revolution? I recollect in solitude that I am soley a creation of the leisure class. If I did not love literature, I would not have to die like this. Useless and intelligent, I retreat inside myself. May my pen halt at the truth.
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