Perhaps everything exists only because something else does. Nothing just is, everything coexists; perhaps that’s right. I feel that I would not exist at this hour (or at lest that I would not exist in the exact way that I exist, with my present consciousness of myself which because it is consciousness and because it is present is, at this moment, entirely me) if that lamp were not lit over there, somewhere a lighthouse marking nothing, erected on the false privilege lent but its height. I feel this because I feel nothing. I think this because this is all nothing. Nothing, nothing, just part of the night and silence and whatever emptiness, negativity and inconsistency I shared with them, the space that exists between me and me, a thing mislaid by some god.
— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet
(Source: fuckyeahexistentialism)
