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O Oceano



Ficou lá, em pé, nas pedras, contemplando o oceano. Esse oceano que tocou tantas praias, onde tantos sonhos foram sonhados, em tantas diferentes línguas. Esse oceano ao qual se sentiu tão ligado, seu parceiro de outras vidas, tão familiar, tão misterioso. Para ele, desconhecido.

Lá permaneceu, parado, olhando fixamente, observando as rítmicas idas e vindas. Sentia-se atraído por sua intensidade, pelo movimento das ondas. Tentava entender o porquê. Ouvia atentamente seus sons.

Imaginava o prazer de sentir-se coberto por suas águas, sentindo sua temperatura, subermergindo em sua profundidade, deixando seu corpo ser carregado pelas correntes. Podia adivinhar as correntes, profundas correntes.

Nadadores enfrentavam tais correntes. Ele já vira. Mergulhando das pedras, eles se jogavam. Com suas primeiras braçadas furiosas, confrontavam as marés, domavam as correntes. Voltavam exaustos, sem fôlego e extasiados. Mas ele não era nadador. Vinha contemplando esse oceano há alguns anos. Ouvia seu chamado. Enchia sua vida monótona, seus sonhos, suas fantasias.


Deu um passo mais à frente. Olhou para baixo, fechou os olhos, ouviu a voz, chamando por seu nome, insistindo. Ficou lá, na ponta da pedra, sentiu a brisa, lambeu o sal que ela trouxe aos seus lábios e o saboreou por um momento. Abriu os olhos, sentiu-os arder pelo Sol. Respirou fundo, virou-se e caminhou na direção oposta.

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