With respect to Socrates, my unexamined life is not worth living. The front room is the face we show everyone but we hide our true self in the back room.
I have finished reading The Book of Disquiet for the first time today. I was mesmerized over these past months poring over the first 100 or so pages, then as his natural poet took over the reading became rather perplexing, though the last fifty pages went back to the dreamlike narrative of his Portuguese workaday life and what it means to live.
I dislike, at least today, the idea of writing a phrase from his book, as if to capture the essence of his thoughts, or at the very least, what I took from it. Pessoa spoke about action as opposed to inaction, favoring the latter for its embodiment of creation over the simple act of living.
I thoroughly enjoyed how he basked in dreams and thoughts so unabashed in how it may be perceived. He wrote so freely, no wonder he favored the quiet abstraction of life over the humanity running at him at full speed ringing false in their words and actions.
Pessoa played a role in the ultimate starting of this diary. For years many have told me to write down my thoughts, to write without limits, to share of my soul in the present.
There has always been an animal running on a wheel in my brain, constantly keeping me thought-full, and there has been a man in a cell, deep in the pit of my belly, trapped since I placed him there. Both of these animal/humans drive my unquenchable desire to create.
I have to create and to deny myself is accepting my weakness over strength.
This small entry is what The Back Room is for. Stirrings and dreams.