sábado, 15 de novembro de 2014
Wrote her a letter. It said:
'All I've ever wanted...'
On the back I found the answer:
'When you left I died.
Took the long road home. By the mountains, always seeing that old stream, older than the earth around my house. My house is pretty old, what does that say of me? It says things, says words. She'd offer me a warm cup of chocolate, a smile, a kiss on the forehead and a pet on my head. Then she'd say that I think too much. I think I think as much as anyone else. Even if slower - even if I always rush to a conclusion. Nevertheless, I followed the old stream. Coming trickling down the mountain - crashing against the rocks, holding on to the trees. Eventually I got to that old house, all bricks and windows. Entered through the rusty, hinging door, saw all the dusty wood furniture. Saw myself before, ages ago, playing on the ground, refusing to eat the meal on my plate, running around, hiding from the hands that tickled - running from the fear of growing up. Sat down on the table, opened the letter, wrote on capital letters:
Licked the stamp and threw it in the garbage. Waited for a reply.
Outside the wind blows, the thunder falls, the rain flows. I drain the energy of the darkness that surrounds my house. I drain it into a pit of melancholy, into that sinking piece of bewildering shit that I blabber about in my sleep - awaken still. I look out the window and I see her. I see her laughing, smiling, fading into the dark, lost to me. All but an amout of ashes remain. I burned the damn letter.
Awake the next morning by the window, raining outside still, the clouds a light shade of grey, drowning me in the slow mist that covers the air of the morning. All around the world seems to move - rabbits run, cars pass by, shades come to disappear once again. All around the world seems to forgive and forget - all but the ashes in my fireplace. If the world is the day, if the ashes are the night, I'm but the dusk that hides between both in fear of getting caught and forcefully confronted with reality.
sábado, 20 de setembro de 2014
A criança corre pelos corredores e espaços abertos,
Corre com a pressa de ser, sem tempo para aprender,
Criança, um dia vais conseguir ver,
O tempo vai apanhar-te e ensinar-te
Tudo o que as fantasias e correrias não conseguiram.
Criança, não tenhas medo de te perder,
O teu ser é somente teu ser,
Ninguém nem nada to pode remover.
Corre, criança, corre até a alma te doer,
Pára então para rever e crescer,
Pára então e aprende tudo o que há a aprender.