The City of Disquietude
I have a world of friends inside me, with their own real, individual imperfect lives.
Some of them have problems, other have the humble and picturesque life of bohemians. Others are traveling sales representatives. Others live in the rural villages and hamlets of a Portugal inside me; they come to the city, where I happen to run into them, and with talking out loud, gesticulating… And when I dream this and picture myself running into them, then I am entirely happy, I feel fulfilled, I jump up and down, my eyes gleam, I open my arms and feel a genuine, enormous happiness.
Ah, no nostalgia is as painful as the nostalgia for things that never existed! The longing I feel when I think of the past I’ve lived in real time, when I weep over the cadaver of my childhood life… this can’t compare to the painful and trembling fervor with which I weep over the non-reality of my dreams’ humble characters, even the minor ones that I only recall having seen once, by chance, in my pseudo-life, turning a corner in my vision, or passing through a doorway on a street that I walked up and down in a dream.
Fernando Pessoa ”The Book of Disquietude”