#633 Untitled

Today's dreamers are perhaps the great precursors
of the ultimate science of the future.


If I often interrupt a thought with a scenic description that in
some way ts into the real or imagined scheme of my impressions

it's because the scenery is a door through
which I ee from my awareness of my creative impotence.

I,
because I live,
pass on,
although the same.

On these occasions,

I always recall the words of I
can't remember which scholastic: Deus est anima brutorum
God is the soul of the beasts.

No one would be able to say who I am,
nor know who I've been.

Thus ideas and images,
throbbing with expressiveness,

pass through me in resounding processions of
pale silks on which imagination shimmers like moonlight
dappled and indefinite.

In the same way,

the idea of travelling withers if I happen
to go near a platform or port of departure.

How much better it is to see rather than think,
to read rather than write.

Art gives shelter to the sensibility that action was obliged to forget.

Do you forgive me? Not entirely.

Once we're able to see this world as an illusion and a phantasm,
then we can see everything that happens to us as a dream,
as something that pretended to exist while we were sleeping.

Let this soul be my tomb for ever,
and become sheer darkness,
and may I never be able to live again without feelings and desires.

—António Mora, A Riqueza de um Doido