das águas, das flores e seus crescimentos flutuantes

 

1. ver a beleza
2. saber gostar
3. querer pensar

Contusion

Color floods to the spot, dull purple.
The rest of the body is all washed-out,
The color of pearl.

In a pit of a rock
The sea sucks obsessively,
One hollow the whole sea's pivot.

The size of a fly,
The doom mark
Crawls down the wall.

The heart shuts,
The sea slides back,
The mirrors are sheeted.

Sylvia Plath

Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.

Charlie Kaufman Synecdoche, New York

"Simples, tão simples como a água que outrora
bebeu,
junto à insólita fonte.
E se era doce, esqueceu.
Era outra água, com o tempo incalculável,
por dentro,
com uvas brutais,
muito perto dos lábios.
Não era amor o que diziam, atrás dos quintais."

José Agostinho Baptista

 

( é a última a morrer. )

  seguro o cartão maltratado. não me canso de olhar para a fotografia, para mim há cinco anos atrás - só lhe vejo a cara com 20 anos acabados de fazer e nada identificáveis, imagino-lhe o corpo ainda ileso, a viagem por fazer. agarro-me ao b.i. como a um resto de mim que não quero devolver.

 

para sair da água?

já sem gotas sem lágrimas

agora ela acompanha-me. mas ainda me faltam aulas de orientação.

perco-me nas bifurcações mais centrais:



( jeff buckley - morning theft )

 




( a máquina disse )