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Showing posts from July, 2015

What was once

What was once nourishing  Now lies empty and shriveled What was once fresh and ripe Now decays in abandonment What was sweet and whole  Now is left in shreds  A dark reminder  A lonely witness A sad picture of what it once was

Flowers could have bloomed

Screaming silences The soul Quietly cries Voiceless supplications
Every bit of illusion  stolen away  Every day A little loss Every night  A thicker  web of despair
A frozen wave  over once green fields A translucent white blanket  Covering dreams of buds
Flowers could have bloomed  Yet go deadly dorment Sleeping beauties  never to be awaken  By uncalled-for loving kisses

The unbearable lightness of what we used to be

Intertwined mythical twins
Breathing the same air Laughing the same laughter
Birds of a feather
We used to be
We used to mean love 
We used to mean dreams
White cotton clouds  In a blue blue sky
We used to be

Silver threads of thoughts
Flickering fireflies in the night
Inconsequent light  leaves 
carelessly thrown by the wind 
We used to be 

Waves of forgotten waters
Tides of an endless ocean
Brushing unknown sands
Ever delicately

Morning sunshine
Sparkling sea waters 
Goldly glimmering glows
fluctuating glistening souls 
We used to be 

To a half dead friend

Dear friend, hang on! 
I know you feel half dead.  Still, hang on!  I know you are drowning in darkness.  I know it is hard to breathe.  Still, my friend, hang on! I am not telling you,  my friend,   not to be afraid,   not to feel the cold. 
I respect this wave of darkness  that comes crawling,  enwraping our bodies,  suffocating our dreams,  making us forget  the purpose of breathing,  the process of breathing. 
I'm not telling you to be strong.  You already are. I'm not asking you to control the monsters, to kill the seven headed dragon,  to hold its heart in your hands.  No, my friend,  just hang on! 
Baby steps towards light forceful little movements  away from the dark. Every day a small conquest. Every night a little dream. 
A short walk in the sun The contemplation of a flower,  its elaborate simplicity  The gazing at a single star in the sky,  proof of our insignificance,  of our connection with it all
The feel of water on your skin,  the soothing warm temperature or its energizing cold The harmony of a s…

Avengers, Bad Guys, Hypocrites and Oscar Wilde

I got to the office and opened the Facebook page. "I'll just check out the news and move on to my reading. "Just a few minutes won't hurt!" That's what I told myself! An hour later, here I am dealing with the effects of it, pouring them into words so I'll be able to breathe a little better. "Who was I fooling?  Why do I tell myself such lies?"
 I read the news and made the repetitive mistake of reading the comments, the same obnoxious comments, many of them the acritical repetition of  the midia discourse, many ignorant, paranoid and delusional interpretations of history. "Man, life is hard!" One picture of a guy, in black, wearing a skeleton mask, on top of a motorcycle, a dead dark body, no shirt on,  covered in blood and the headlines explaining: "Skeleton masked man kills bandits in Teresina and gets popular support" "What a world!" The shock just grew bigger when I read the post that followed it: "I wish…

O filho que não ficou

Eu me lembro de esperar um filho que nunca veio, um filho que nunca ninei nos meus braços. Eu me lembro de esperar um filho que teria os cabelos do seu pai, seu olhar bondoso. Ele seria curioso do mundo e eu acompanharia todas as coisas que ele veria com seus olhos de encantamento. Tudo seria novo para os seus olhos novos, como dizia a música que eu ouvia enquanto o esperava. Eu me lembro de sonhar com seu futuro, seus sorrisos. Eu me lembro das esperanças que guardava para ele. Ele não me quis, esse filho. Ele não ficou.

Ele não estava interessado no parquinho na frente do prédio em que moramos. Não estava interessado em minha mão segurando a dele enquanto caminhava seus primeiros passos. Ele não ligou para as flores, folhas e gravetos que caem das árvores na nossa vizinhança. Não quis ouvir as canções de ninar levemente desafinadas que eu ia cantar ou as histórias que eu ia contar na hora de dormir. Ele sequer se importou com o leite, todo aquele leite que já estava ali esperando p…

On straight lines, gremlins and soap bubbles

I envy people with linear lives, no curves, potholes, u-turns. They move in straight lines, these people, satisfied. No questions, no doubts, no furies. Always satisfied, these people. I, myself, am crooked, confused, mutant. I feel imeasurable angst, restlessness. I have uncountable urges.  Insomnia, I have insomnia. I worry about the flapping of wings of a butterfly in Tokyo. I travel through time and space. I have dreams of lightness and transparence. I have desires and fears.  Infinite fears reside in me. I face them, I hide them. 
They multiply, my fears, as gremlins. You know, gremlins? I breathe with difficulty, a lump in the throat, a scream that I can't let out, choked in. Threads of thoughts intertwined, feelings, entangled in such a manner that I cannot tell where one starts or where the other ends.  
So, I create stories. I make them up, I exaggerate, I do not stop. I come and go, I come and go. I do not sleep. I count stars, I hum songs, I do not sleep.  I feel, I suffer…

The child that did not stay

I remember expecting a child that never came, a child I never held in my arms. I remember expecting a child who would have his father's hair, his kind eyes.  He would be curious of the world and I would follow closely all the things he would see with enchanted eyes. Everything would be new for his new eyes. Those were the words of a song about someone else's child, a song I used to listen to while waiting for this child. I remember dreaming of his future, of his smiles. I remember my hopes for him. He did not want me, this child. He did not stay. 
He was not interested in the playground in front of the building we live. He was not interested in having my hand holding his while he walked his first steps. He did not care about the flowers, leaves, little dry sticks that fall from the trees in our neighbourhood. He did not want to listen to the slightly out of tune lullabies I was going to sing or the stories I would read at bedtime. He did not even care for the milk, all the mi…

As pequenas coisas

O caminho é o mesmo, parece. O mesmo! Mas as pequenas coisas, essas mudam a cada dia. Desde que abri os olhos posso ver as pequenas coisas. Não quer dizer que as vejo desde que nasci. Não é isso que estou dizendo! Elas estavam aí, eu sei, mas eu não as via, as pequenas coisas. Eu as vejo agora e foi preciso uma longa jornada, uma longa e difícil travessia, para ver as pequenas coisas pelo caminho. 
Já ando por esse mesmo caminho há um tempo. Já passei por ele antes, em outras ocasiões. Mas   antes eu não via as pequenas coisas. Tenho certeza que já estavam aí e que pisei nelas, esmaguei-as  talvez, até mesmo matei algumas delas, mas eu não as via.   
Minha mãe, creio, quando estava por aqui, via as pequenas coisas e tentava mostrá-las para mim, mas eu não as via. Não havia tempo para as pequenas coisas então. Eu tinha pressa, eu tinha coisas a fazer,  eu tinha raiva, eu corria muito e rápido. Não havia tempo para as pequenas coisas. Ela as encontrava  no alto, geralmente. As árvores,…