The book of the lack of tranquility

From behind the pale colors of the finished summer, emerged, in the coincidences of evenings, softer shades than the wide sky, touches of a cold breeze announcing the advance of autumn. It was not yet time for the yellowing or falling of the leaves, nor was it time for that feeling accompanying our sense of an external death, which is also our death. It seemed as if it was about fatigue in the effort of existence, an ambiguous drowsiness suddenly overriding the last movements of the act. Oh, it is evenings of dull indifference that make the evening begin in us, before it settles in things. Every autumn that comes is closer to the autumn that will be ours, as well as summer; but autumn reminds us of what autumn is, the end of everything. While in summer; it is easy to notice our forgetfulness of that. Not yet the time of autumn, the yellowing of falling leaves or the damp depression of the time that will later become winter, but there is a glimmer of pre-existing gloom, anxious for departure, in the feeling at the core of the feeling we are aware of, of the colorful spread of things, of the other tone of the wind, of the older calm that withdraws, at the descent of night, with the inevitable presence of the whole universe... Yes, we will all pass, with all we will pass. Nothing will remain of what exhausted feelings or gloves. Nothing will remain of what was exchanged in words about death and local politics. And just as a single light illuminates the faces of saints... so the absence of light itself will leave in the darkness that dust that remains of those who were saints... In the vast vortex, like the vortex of dry leaves, where the whole world lies in lethargy, the kingdoms hold the importance of the same chaos, and the braids of blonde girls go in the deadly rotation in which the scepters of empires go. Everything is dust, and the invisible veil, barely showing its open door, facing a closed door, dances, all the things that formed, for us and within us, the perceptible order of the universe. Everything is shadows and joking dust, no sound but the howling blown by the wind. No stillness except what the wind leaves behind. Some, because they are lighter, become light leaves, passing high through the corridor hurricane and falling far from a circle of those heavier. Others, almost visible, from the dust itself, slightly different if we saw them up close only, make themselves a bed in the vortex. Others so far are miniature trunks, curled here and there, that one day, when we know things, the gate of depth will open, and all that we knew—trash of stars or spirits—will be swept out of the house, so that what exists will begin again. The heart hurts me like a strange body. My brain yearns with everything I feel. Yes, it is the beginning of autumn that brings to the air and to my soul that grim light that passes framed by the smallest death, the ambiguous roundness clear in the pure hour, for the deficiency of everything. Autumn, yes, the existing or to be autumn, and the pre-fatigue of all movements, and the pre-disappointment of all dreams. What can I expect and from what? Now, I go, while I think about myself, I go among the leaves and dust of the corridor, in the orbit I go without feeling anything, making a noise of life in the clean tiles that are gilded with the gold of the conclusion, a corner in a place I do not know... All I thought, all I dreamed, all I did or did not do— all this— in autumn passes [..] It is the unrest that Fernando Pessoa lived, takes you with it, so that your state becomes like his... contemplating the meanings of life that seep through the fingers and becomes a philosophy that reaches in its meanings the pinnacle of human creativity that gives life dimensions perhaps deeper and nobler than man can imagine... And to this, this book of unrest is a new reading... a journey into human thought... and into what it encompasses of moments of its existence... It is a blessing sometimes, and happiness and joy those exceptional moments that at their dawn, both the spirit and existence praise in their absolute being in stillness and light. How can this book "the unrest" be presented itself? It can be considered like a diary that carries no indication of any date, a diary without events... it is a measure of a tragic and unique fate, expanding to encompass all of humanity, balanced, according to the same existential scales, according to the openings where the soul unfolds in confusion, planting day and night the space between life and death...