das decepções: n°655273

o que me entristece, que me arranca aquela lágrima sofrida e dura dos olhos, é o fato de que somos amigos apenas na tristeza, de que conversamos apenas nos momentos de lamento.

o que me faz te desprezar cada vez um pouco mais é o fato de que somos felizes com a presença do outro apenas quando necessitamos de alívio emocional, conseguido pela desgraça mútua/reversa.

o que me faz ficar decepcionada (contigo e comigo mesmo) é o fato de que vivemos desencontrados todo o tempo, quando poderíamos - muito bem - sermos bons amigos.

must say i am a little bit gypsy.

"George was honest, prosperous and trusted by his customers. But George was not content. He felt there should be more to life than dispensing liver oil. In the spring of that year, the Societe Pharmeceutique formed an expedition to Central America to study the medicinal properties of certain natural compounds. George was the expedition's most eager volunteer.

But his adventure took a turn he did not expect. One night, he was invited to drink unrefined cacao with a pinch of chili: the very same drink the ancient Maya used in their sacred ceremonies. The Maya believed cacao held the power to unlock hidden yearnings... and reveal destinies.

And so it was that George first saw Chitza. (...) The tribal elders tried to warn George about her. She was one of the wanderers, her people moved with the North Wind, from village to village dispensing ancient remedies and never settling down. Not a good choice for a bride. George did not heed their warning and, for a while, it seemed that he and Chitza might lead a happy life together in France.

Alas, the clever North Wind had other plans. One morning, George awoke to discover that Chitza and the little girl Vianne had gone away. Mother and daughter were fated to wander from village to village dispensing ancient cacao remedies, traveling with the wind, just as Chitza's people had done for generations."

"Will it just go on forever?"

scene from the silent movie (or from the silent dream)
/ captions

stalker: "i thought the words i wrote you, such words that cointained every aspect of the the life i've devoted to you, were going to be enough. they weren't. i thought your beauty, your admiration (albeit scared) for my art was going to be enough. it wasn't. i confess i starved, i searched for more. the harder i looked for the crumbles, the faster i hungered. a beast, i say, devoured me.

i thought the flame of the distance, the crying for the crave was going to be enough. it wasn't. i thought your eyes under the sun, your pictures on the wall were going to be enough. in fact, they were, but only for a little while. looking at the bigger picture... after all, they weren't.

now nothing is anymore. i must devour your skin and bones, i must keep you inside me. i must never let you go. i must possess - that is the verb. i must possess your heart."

wake up alone

não quero admitir, mas está crescendo. vai aos poucos tomando conta, da ponta dos dedos aos fios de cabelo. o que antes era muito sutil agora é muito súbito, inesperado. me incomoda, tenho que dizer, a eterna confusão das coisas e a diferenciação difícil da linha de sonho e da linha de vida. mas fico em silêncio. este, porém, também está mais difícil de manter. meu desejo maior era falar, partilhar, mas o ato de contar requer uma força de vontade e uma coragem que me escapam. fico à sombra, como sempre fiquei. sem contar que ficar no escuro é mais seguro: quanto mais falo, mais real se torna. fica sólido. enfim, esperei na minha ingenuidade que passasse, mas não passou. achei que o desconforto fosse momentâneo, mas não é. a loucura é uma palavra difícil de colocar para fora da boca, e impossível para fora da mente. convivo com ela um dia após o outro e com suas irmãs: a paranóia, a insônia, a compulsão. boto a culpa noutras coisas, adio o inadiável. o inevitável. espero lentamente que me mate, é meu veneno. minha mente é meu fardo. aceito. e não falo nada. no silêncio o eco é forte, porém, como esse ruído de pêndulo entre os extremos da loucura e da sanidade, o barulho fica menor.

e quanto maior o silêncio, menor o caos.

ways home

at the very end of midnight i was in my room, waiting for a sleep that never comes. at the very beginning of the morning - not one minute past the darkest hour - i heard a knock on my door. faint it was, lacking of hope. i opened the door, and it was no raven. a drunk figure appeared, dressed in day-to-day clothes: old friend of mine, of long-time-no-see. i invited her in, pointed to the chair: please, please seat. want some tea?

no, no she said. thank you. i came here to talk to you. do you have the time? she proceeded. of course i had the time. i was all ears. i produced then two cups from my old yellow kitchen and re-heated coffee: the best i could offer in months since my last job. anyway, she went on talking. i knew what she was going to say: something about him. it only could be about him. could not be about us, since we were friends, but not that very good of friends. we knew each other, we went to each other's birthday celebrations... but i only REALLY knew her brother. her brother, whose figure now fainted slightly in my head. i haven't seen him since i've moved out of the luxurious condo i had rented on the east side, between the publisher's house and the greasy italian cantina.

anyway. she turned to me, sobbing, and, as i had predicted, said that Luca went missing. have you seen him? has he showed up at your door? no no, he hasn't. he hasn't showed up at my door for many months now, not ever since everything happened, i don't even know if he has my new address. he probably didn't have it. i don't remember giving it to him, i don't remember any of our before-mutual-friends and now-my-friends talking/walking by his side. in the matter of fact, i haven't seen him walking on the streets nor painting his canvas by the fountains and cafés of the square. i can't remember the last time i saw him. yet.. no! now i remember! crossing his way on John's bar, one night, his somber figure by the pool tables, scotch and ice in hand. oh my god, i'm sorry, this coffee tastes terrible. i'm sorry. don't sip it. anyway, i remember him... now i see! so clear! as it were yesterday. dirty grey coat, that one he bought at the thrift store, at the canadian salvation army. canada was so cold. we didn't freeze to death because of our coats and our booze. somber, very somber he was. cigarette on the corner of his lips, eyelids so dark. he seemed deranged, i gotta confess, if not sad. but he tended to be that way. sad. maybe it was the drinks. alcohol and him did not mix well: he had that moments of hilarious laughs and that contagious happiness, followed by the worst trip down i have ever seen in a human being.

yes, yes. he was so sad - she interrupted me. sometimes i would go to his room and see him, by the side of the bed, on the floor, lights always off, lps playing softly in the background. nick cave, nick cave and the bad seeds. david bowie. eyes closed, dry tears. sometimes he would be asleep after crying, tears still tarnishing his pale pale cheeks. what could i do? i had no guts to talk to him, i just let him go. he had to go. i had to let him go. and now I have to go, i'm sorry. i am sorry for taking your time. if you cross his way somewhere, if the phone rings and it's him, help him. he needs your help. please, PLEASE, tell him to go home. home is waiting for him. please tell him that there are ways to come home.

off the door she went. on the paper, a few weeks later, he was found dead. the phone never rang after all.