he woman Caeiro fell in love with. I have no idea who she was, and I intend to never find out, not even out of curiosity. There are things of which the soul refuses to lose its ignorance.I’m perfectly aware no one’s obliged to reciprocate love, and great poets have nothing to do with being great lovers. But there’s a transcendent spite...Let her remain anonymous even to God!

Some expectation are inevitable but the problem happens when we are not able to measure the likelihood of reciprocation or fulfillment. We fail as measuring instruments, and so we drag & impose our expectations and ourselves along.

I write because it's the only thing I love that always loves me back.

I’ve suppressed my aspirations to forget all rationality and let the moment explain everything, for nothing to be said and everything understood. If only I knew how to let these feelings out.