Hmmmm I suppose… the words I have been looking for in the last night’s darkness, I found today by dawn, in Fernando Pessoa.
The poet is a man who feigns
And feigns so thoroughly, at last
He manages to feign as pain
The pain he really feels,
And those who read what once he wrote
Feel clearly, in the pain they read,
Neither of the pains he felt,
only a pain they cannot sense.
And thus, around its jolting track
There runs, to keep our reason busy,
The circling clockwork train of ours
That men agree to call a heart.
Autopsychography by Fernando Pessoa
A wonderful poem from one of modernity's isolated and isolating masters…self as self-deception and image ever redounding within, never beyond the parameters of the skin gone.