Chaimaa

“Sadly I write in my quiet room, alone as I have always been, alone as I will always be. And I wonder if my apparently negligible voice might not embody the essence of thousands of voices, the longing for self-expression
of thousands of lives, the patience of millions of souls resigned like my own to their daily lot, their useless dreams, and their hopeless hopes. In these moments my heart beats faster because I’m conscious of it. I live more
because I live on high. I feel a religious force within me, a species of prayer, a kind of public outcry. But my mind quickly puts me in my place… I remember that I’m on the fourth floor of the Rua dos Douradores; I feel drowsy; I look at my unlovely hand resting on this half-written page and at the cheap cigarette in my left hand, hovering over the fraying blotter. Me in this fourth-floor room, interrogating life!, saying what souls feel!,
writing prose like a genius or a famous author! Me, here, a genius! …”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet