The most abject of all needs is to confide, to confess. It’s the soul’s need to externalize. Go ahead and confess, but confess what you don’t feel. Go ahead and tell your secrets to get their weight off your soul, but let the secrets you tell be secrets you’ve never had. Lie to yourself before you tell that truth. Expressing yourself is always a mistake. Be resolutely conscious: let expression, for you, be synonymous with lying.

– 349 of Fernando Pessoa’s Book of Disquiet

Sent home with this book in tow after nearly eight hours of discussing the merits of memoir writing/non-fiction vs. fiction, the politics of the body, yearnings of the flesh and why honesty may not necessarily make anyone a good writer. 

The result is a desire to write, a yearning to confide–never to confess. For what are my sins, really? Apart from the usual transgressions and the urge to covet what is forbidden, I see no real flaw in my design. There is just the soul granted freedom in the vessel. The flesh is not weak, but powerful–A force beyond imagination.

The whiff of a man’s neck in a shallow embrace, the electricity in the small of one’s back, the bite to quiet a moan, and your gaze in this yellow-lit room. 

I confess the absence of guilt.


2 thoughts on “Disquiet.

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