Sundays are so boring sometimes. Particularly if you have lot of tasks to do and, feeling the impossibility to finish the to do list, you (me) start thinking about the singularity of life, the never ending duties. Then you try to rationalize, to give a sense of purpose. You realize at that moment that you are a philosopher, although with an excessive metaphysical turn. It happened a few moments ago to me and then I found in a raw of books this singular poet, Pessoa, and my thoughts were completed:

«“I don’t have a philosophy: I have senses…
If I talk about Nature, it’s not because I know what it is,
But because I love it, and that’s why I love it,
Because when you love you never know what you love,
Or why you love, or what love is.

Loving is eternal innocence,
And the only innocence is not thinking.”
Alberto Caeiro, The Keeper of Sheep    

Now, I can sit for a moment and silently look to the Tagus river.

 

 

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