‘‘Life is change.
Being yourself is being another.
You cannot feel if you feel today as you felt yesterday:
the same feeling is the same as no feeling:
it is only a memory of yesterday’s feeling,
today’s ashes of yesterday’s fire.

This morning is the first of creation.
This hour has never struck before.
Tomorrow will be another age.
To live is to change.’

(Fernando Pessoa)

Eyes to see. New eyes to take in new mornings. ‘This  hour has never struck before.’ The poet lives the fullness of his life in the depth of his inspiration. Every fire is new, every hour is different, every breath is fresh because my own being is ever different, ‘unexpectedly resurrected’ in another expression of the same poet. I let myself to be surprised by myself, and so the whole world surprises me at every instant with the novelty of an old landscape, the discovery of the daily road, the shock of a familiar face. Everything is new because I am new.

‘Being yourself is being another’. Thank you, poet. To be another while I am myself. The permanent continuity of my faithful conscience and the renewed novelty of my free spontaneity. Feeling confident with myself to let myself change, to dare to come out of my routine and out of the expectations that chain me down in set habits and fixed principles that don’t allow me to be another. Being another is the only way to really be. Coming out each day from yesterday’s shell. Being born again with the new sunrise. Greeting the word at each meeting with the joy of a new creation. Life never repeats itself. And whatever repeats itself is not life.

‘The same feeling is the same as no feeling.’ Feeling is instantaneous, spontaneous, alive. The rest is memories. And memories of memories. Our feelings today are only en echo of our feelings yesterday, that is, they are not feelings any more, as we are not feeling them now, and a life without feelings is no life. Today’s ashes of yesterday’s fire. A love that is only a remembrance, words that are only entries in a dictionary, fantasies that are only dead butterflies pinned down on a sheet of cardboard. We miss life while we claim to be alive.