My friends overestimate my ability and desire to write. Some say that I should write a book. I will not, and cannot, write a book because it requires immense obsession. I do not have that, not yet at least. There is one more reason why I will not write a book. The book already exists: The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa, or more precisely, Bernardo Soares, who did exist but did not live.

Whether or not they exist, we’re slaves to the gods.

This book represents many hours of pondering in an eventless life, which produces many attention points that hide before our eyes in our daily hustles. The book is unhappy, unsatisfied, but the narrator has come to the acceptance that the mirage of change is always just out of touch. The reader is thus a witness of the tragedy of the gift of life. They find different forms of explaining their own annoyances through the words of someone else, as ordinary as themselves. It goes sometimes with total disgust, sometimes an intellectual curiosity, and in other instances—interestingly and paradoxically—gratitude. But the book never pretends that things matter, and that is its point.

Each drop of rain is my failed life weeping in nature. (…)

The gutters spew out little torrent of sudden water. A troubling noise of falling rain falss through my awareness that there are downspouts. The rain groans as it litslessly battters the panes…

A colld hand squeezes my throat and prevents me from breathing life. (…)

I have many more excerpts from the book that I would like to quote, but I won’t bore anyone with that. In essence, it is a silent scream. The scream is there because as a human I have to do something against this unending noise. However, the listener is inattentive, and I know. Thus, it is a show whose actors and audience are one and no one but me.