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It so happens that I am tired of living.
(Echoing Neruda’s Walking Around)

Words that fleet to the mind every time one ventures outside the home, to walk, to stand, to sit (if the opportunity presents itself). To eat, to try a different thing. The novelty of things, of new places to go, to eat, wears out, and tedium sets in.

Often times when this happens I would read a bit of Pessoa, then tell myself I should not be as wearied as he is. I talk but I never mean what I say, E says to me. E who has memories of all words uttered. I wonder if I am just uttering words, not remembering any of them. I forget. I have lost the ability to retain anything. Things pass me by. Everything is without consequence, either because they do not imprint themselves upon me, or that I am beginning to not care, or be aware of things.

To be deeply rooted in the present.