‘Inch by inch I conquered the inner terrain I was born with. Bit by bit I reclaimed the swamp in which I’d languished. I gave birth to my definitive being, but I had to wrench myself out of me with forceps.’ – Fernando Pessoa, an excerpt from The Book of Disquiet.
Today marks my birthday, twenty-two on the twenty second. That’s eight thousand and thirty days lived. And a further million ways to have grown. There are a hundred things I fear. Least of all age, most of all myself. And a thousand ways to be loved and left. The only thing I know for sure is that life’s reliable in its unpredictability. And all I’ve ever desired is that I continue to feel it’s warmth. To hear the rustle of fallen leaves during the autumn eve. To inflame under the heat of sun. To wilt beneath the blanket of night. I demand to be in accord with the highest of feeling, to drink poison from the fragmentations of moment that re-assemble themselves into new day.