Recently my bathroom reading book has been Fernando Pessoa’s The Book of Disquiet which I’ve written about here before. It probably works best as a bathroom reading book because it’s essentially a blog of one of his characters Bernardo Soares (or heteronyms as Pessoa likes to call them). Soares is an accountant working in the turn of the 20th century Lisbon, and his “diary entries” are quite existential and dreary. Gee, I wonder why I would gravitate towards that?
I guess these brief snippets have gotten me a tad bit glum the last couple of weeks despite the great warm weather we’ve been having. Or maybe it’s not being happy at the job. Or being broke. Or not having been fucked in a while. Or realizing what a stupid shithead the President is. Or going to a job interview, getting your hopes up then getting turned down emphatically. Or an impending birthday.
With taking care of The Grandmother for these past years, I keep thinking about how long I am going to live. Or, more accurately, how long I want to live. Everything is fine right now, but what about as I approach 60? 70? Will I even make it that long especially since I spent 16 years of my life as a heavy smoker (~ a pack a day.)
It’s sort of funny to stare at the hopelessness that most of us feel in this world.