I don’t know how many souls I have
I have changed at every moment.
I always feel like a stranger.
I have 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.
A note in the margin of my reading,
Rereading, I wonder “was that me?”
God knows because he wrote it.
Fernando Pessoa. I don’t know how many souls I have, 1930.
And the spirit of darkness spread a shroud over me…everything was silent-everything. But up in the heights soughed the ever lasting song, the voice of the air, the distant, toneless humming which is never silent.