Itβs the poet we love in Caeiro, not the philosopher. What we really get from these poems is a childlike sense of life, with all the direct materiality of the childβs mind, and all the vital spirituality of hope and increase that exist in the body and soul of nescient childhood. Caeiroβs work is a dawn that wakes us up and quickens us; a more that material, more than anti-spiritual dawn. Itβs an abstract effect, pure vacuum, nothingness.
Please focus on this simple realization. There is only every now and how you interact with this moment decides everything that you are experiencing. There will be bodily pain but suffering is an option. However, it will first clearly be seen as a choice when you have untangled yourself from the minds conditioned patterns.
Please do not allow the wildfires in your mind to consume your awareness of this moment beyond its content. You are responsible for the mind and not the other way around.
I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to me to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.
There is a time in the life of every boy when he for the first time takes the backward view of life. Perhaps that is the moment when he crosses the line into manhood. The boy is walking through the street of his town. He is thinking of the future and of the figure he will cut in the world. Ambitions and regrets awake within him. Suddenly something happens; he stops under a tree and waits as for a voice calling his name. Ghosts of old things creep into his consciousness; the voices outside of himself whisper a message concerning the limitations of life. From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy. With a little gasp he sees himself as merely a leaf blown by the wind through the streets of his village. He knows that in spite of all the stout talk of his fellows he must live and die in uncertainty, a thing blown by the winds, a thing destined like corn to wilt in the sun.
Perhaps, only when we find ourselves stuck with each other, away from all our dreams and life ambitions, we would see love as it really is; an extraordinary gift given to ordinary people.
Beauty loves contradiction. Beauty is born of desire. And without beauty, there is nothing. Beauty is our keeper, our master, our reason. Beauty is illumination born of the dark.