An Eye (Or a Flower Archway)

I begun with this thought of an eye. Because you know, it's what most makes sense. Then I just switched.

It's been hard to keep this alive. This fake link. It is not fake for its existence, but it is fake for its appearance. For I would not permit others to see what I truly feel within my heart. And you may not know it consciously - or maybe you know it and you try to deny it or pretend you just don't care - but I am certain I have given all the signs, even though I tried not to.

I feel something for you. I haven't come to that conclusion so easily. It was really confusing in the beginning. I spent endless hours trying to decipher what I had found inside this mind of mine. The cues mounted and I misunderstood all the lights, all the gestures. I misread your face. And thus, when it came to light, it also came to a falling. I mistook my acts towards you, and although today might be a little earlier to express my feelings - walking on such an unsteady surface, paved with possibly only doubtful suspicions - I won't be apologetic, as I never had. For this is what I do: I live it intensely and then I end it roughly. And when push comes to shove, I'll watch you rove away from me.

At this very moment I am here, without you, and I will be the same until I finally overcome it, as I have already done a thousand times. But what bothers me is that once again I will not live the amour, it will simply vanish as though it has never existed.

I could speak of an eye. But you know what? You seem much more like an archway. Made with fine white-painted wood, adorned with a beautiful chain of roses.  An arch under which many incredible people will stride one day. And you'll see them passing. I just hope you seal yourself for someone.

O mesmo recalque de sempre.

O desabafo hoje é sobre as nossas prioridades.

A impressão que se tem é que não nos apaixonamos mais. Pra quê conversar, pra que se conhecer melhor. Frase: 'O amor hoje vem do sexo'. Se isso é ilusão ou não, se dá certo ou não, se é problemático - pros miolos - ou não, aí já são outros 500. O negócio é que tem gente demais acreditando nisso. E essa sensação não é isolada, não: está em todos os mundos, todas as tribos. Não há paciência. Não há tempo. Só há a urgência do contato físico. Suprir a carência virou uma necessidade tão básica como tomar água. Nós já não nos suportamos mais (nem sei se isso foi possível algum dia), precisamos de alguém pra dividir o fardo. Porém, pra mim, a busca é feita no lugar errado, da forma errada; imediatista. E o que se encontra é quase sempre efêmero. 

Sempre há exceções. Sempre dá certo pra alguém aqui ou ali. E sempre há quem acredite no contrário e consiga provar. Calma lá, pra cada um é de um jeito, eu sei... Estou apenas compartilhando o que vejo no geral. Por que o que vejo é um mar de almas solitárias, e eu lá no meio. Ninguém se enxerga: é escuro demais. Ninguém se escuta: a música é muito alta, deixa até vestígio quando se emerge e alcança a praia. Um zumbido que nos impede de ouvir até nosso próprio som.

A questão, pra mim, é que nada disso é inconsciente. É um escolha que fazemos. E é estranho por que, por um lado, ela faz todo o sentido. Respalda-se no pensamento livre, na liberdade sexual, na impressão de felicidade derivada do desprendimento. Então é de propósito. Faço por que quero. Mas não há satisfação. 

O nosso discurso é até interessante. Atributos físicos não são mais importantes; mas são notados primeiro. E são ressaltados primeiro. "Quem quer apaixonar-se?" quase sempre conflita com "Quem quer ser feliz?". Por que há uma associação esquisita, que eu faço, e muita gente por aí também faz, e eu reconheço, não sei desfazer e nem explicar o porque acredito tanto nisso, de que felicidade e liberdade andam juntos. E isso não é um atestado de descrença ao relacionamento, veja bem. É uma descrença à vontade, ao objetivo. Que, por si, já existe em oposição ao instinto e ao desejo, entidades cada dia mais e mais livres.

Não vou deixar de ser realista: é o que dá pra fazer. A gente vive e se relaciona do jeito que "dá", eu sei. Entendo que os tempos são difíceis, que as oportunidades de se aproximar são poucas, que a hora é curta, o minuto ínfimo.

De qualquer forma são apenas impressões minhas. Mas no final só queria dizer que "quem tá cheio de amor pra dar" tá fodido. Só isso.

London implosion

"Implosion" by Nelson Arts of London

I am deeply sorry, but today I shall expunge a few things on thee. And to do so, some questions are necessary. Today I see thee much better than four months ago. If thou askedst if there is regret, I might say yes, there is. For I have looked deep into thy eyes without knowing thee properly. And I have made such a commitment. Lord, I shouldn't have. I have given away my trust and my friendship with no doublethinking. I was fragile, I know. In a brave new world. But that was the moment I betrayed myself, for I thought I could be able to keep myself resolute and distant even in the loneliest moments. However, it was there, in this freezing solitude, that I've behaved as a child, and then I brought thee to my life, to my routine. Today I see thee differently. Well.

It vexes me the fact that thou art always lecturing somewhere about something, or art trying to teach everyone around, for I do not live with people like these. My friends are not like that. I don't put myself in this position, I never bring out any lecture on subject that I (may) master. Because I consider this extremely ridiculous. I understand that yes, indeed, everyone's got diverse kinds of knowledge, but we can only teach when somebody wants to learn. And when thou showest thy knowledge, talk'st on thy studies and wisdoms - it only shows a fail attempt. In the very beginning I thought it was arrogance. I reckoned thou wert considering thyself superior, wiser. Today I have pity on thee. For thou worriest too much with being noticed. Wantest to draw attention regardless the means. Wouldst like to be seen as relevant, strenuous (considering all thy endeavour thou hast shown to reach thy status), intelligent. Doest not thou see this is the wrong path? Doest not see that when thou pushest, thou makest us see exactly the opposite? But it is all okay now. I know thou likest to teach and give random lessons when no one's requested, I know it pleases thee to talk louder and to demonstrate thou art acquainted with some specific point more than the others. I wonder if thou hast observed how much people around do NOT do that. Hast thou seen how ones around thee, who yield knowledge beyond thou canst imagine, do not grab themselves? Hast thou seen it?

Today I see thee differently. I see thou art hard working. Thou hast limited abilities, though. Thou appliest thyself highly to the studies and hold'st information, but thou doest not know how to create. Thou art not imaginative, and this might bother thee more that I can figure. Thou mayest feel empty, incapable of innovation, incapable of leaving behind such an average existence. For that is what very haunts thee: the mediocrity. To live always in the middle. No creation, no cleverness, no originality. Yes, this is saddest. And maybe that is why thou behavest this way. But I will tell you what: I figure thee. Even knowing thou hast some limitations, some difficulties with reasoning and with the understanding of the world and the people that live in it, I get these pain and sorrow of thine. However thou must perceive something, my friend: not everybody is brilliant, but all should be humble. And when one is mediocre, it is needed to be humble.

Therefore we have struck enough. I can't bear this lack of humbleness anymore. To see the world spinning around thee. To wait for people to serve on thee. To think thou art somehow above, for thou knowest how to dress. All thy shallowness arises when thy only sentence in the mourning is asking me what I am wearing, or what have I thought about thy vesture. It drags me, it feels poor. Thou doest not provide an enhancing talk. Thou canst not add anything to people's lives. And that happens because thou doest not draw anything from anyone. Thou wouldst never enrich from one's experience, for thou canst learn from that. Thou art incapable of learning empirically. And what to say when thou triest to pull off that accent? Oh Lord, I think. Critizest me so much, soundest so laughable then! Thou canst force something thou hast not dominated yet. And when thou usest thy so-damn-acute smell to complain on someone or something's, it only blooms thy childish and spoiled sides. And it reduces thee to it: a child. Thou doest not act thy age.

But none of these things annoys me more than all the criticism and intolerance. Why canst thou tolerate the different? Why canst thou show respect to others' likings? Why doest not thou believe in people? What is so wrong with thee?

Answer me, why? Why doest thou find impossible that someone has a different style than thine? Why doest thou think that every man with the same condition as us shall be exactly like us? Canst thou see we are different? I am not better or worse, just different. And I couldn't understand when thou offendedest me so many times. It pleases thee to insult people. Thou art sick. And when thou feltest jealous? I had pity. For thou feltest thou hadest a strong and durable relation. Today I have only pity. I see how empty are all the relations of thine. I see how weak are the bonds thou buildest. And how nobody ever takes thee seriously. 

At last, I would like to say that thou hast made part of the most unpalatable category of people in the world: the braggers. Thou bragest about everything, every hour. And thou wantest to know what is worse? Thou canst not brag. It is painful when I see thou doing it.

And I remained shut. But today no more. Cause I've seen it is impossible to bear. It is impossible to love someone you hate.

Now it's for you.

I wanted you to know I hear you. Here I hear you all the time... I hear you saying on random stuff, reacting to everything in front of me. I wanted you to see how sad it is to be so far from you. How painful it is when I try to reach you and you block me off and I feel a twinge in my stomach. It's like a knife piercing me. I know you don't do it on purpose, because I know you, you put our friendship to the highest levels of tension, but it's ok, cause you're my boy, you're always be my boy and I'm used to it and even grateful to God I have you by my side, just the way you are. But I'm also proud, and my pride has jeopardised me so many times that I've lost count. This pride makes me want to to stop trying, stop running... And wait for you to come. But this time I am simply not able to do this, for it's not the same. I'm not in Brazil. The pictures I post don't match reality. I'm not happy, I'm not having wonderful experiences and I'm not making a lot of new friends. I'm lonely, tasting some solitude I've never had before. I'm finding out true friends stay behind. And one of them is somehow punishing me for I've abandoned him. So I wanted to say this: I haven't, Sam. I'm here, I hear you but I can't see you. As it's written in your book, the eyes are blind, we must see with our hearts. I'd like to see you, and that's all.

Won't mind the gap

So the fear has finally come. Not sure if it is here only now, I would say it has most likely been latent for a while, since this whole possibility of travelling abroad has shown up. And each day it became truer, just like the fear was growing inside, until I notice its presence. Amazing how something that big can go unoticed for so long inside us. Maybe because I truly believed (and a part of me still does) that I was capable, grown up, that I didn't need anybody. I believed I was strong, independent. But now I think different. There are so many doubts, that I feel like a teenager. I'm afraid I won't make friends and allies. I'm afraid people might not like me. I fear making enemies. I fear misreading the classes, misfitting the rythm, the new country, the new culture. All I do is fear.

It's funny how there was only euphoria in the beginning. The will to expand, to create, to change, to love, to suffer, to be born again. The benefit of erasing everything you are and were to start from scratch. However, today there is the fear of being unfaithful to oneself.

I admit the anxiety for the change has become stronger due the weariness of life, fatigue of the routine and the friends. When a so close and touchable perspective of severance like this arose, I allowed my body and mind to be taken over by dissatisfaction. I judged myself unecessary and independent from others. I said: I'm glad I'm going, for I would not bear to stay anymore.

So I lied. Because real life is so damn good! There are love and hate. Thrill and boredom. But for each laughter, for each simple motion or simple sentence that arouses a meaningless smile - each minimal instant of weightlessness - it is worth it. Reality is worth it. And I may not know how far I can live from it.

The delusion was to think I would take all I am with me. I was wrong. Most of me stays behind: that's my mom, my friends, my college, my job, my house. What goes is the empty cocoon, just linked to all behind by such an unbreakable thread, ready to to fill up once more with good and bad things, with life, until it's clogged, so I can go back.

What I know is that for now, I can't mind the gap. I want to leave.

Ao sair de casa

E aí que o medo finalmente bateu. Não sei se bateu agora, muito provavelmente estava latente há um bocado, desde que toda essa possibilidade de viajar pra outro país começou. E a cada dia se tornou mais verdade, assim como o medo foi crescendo, até eu perceber sua presença. Incrível como uma coisa tão grande pode passar despercebida por tanto tempo dentro da gente. Talvez por que eu realmente acreditava (e uma parte ainda acredita) que era capaz, adulto, que não precisava de ninguém. Acreditava que eu era forte, independente. Pois agora meu eu maior pensa o contrário. São tantas inseguranças. E inseguranças tão imbecis que me sinto um adolescente. Temo não conseguir fazer nenhuma amizade, nenhum aliado. Temo não gostar das pessoas, ou as pessoas não gostarem de mim. Temo fazer inimizades. Temo não conseguir acompanhar as aulas, o ritmo, o novo país, a nova cultura. Só temo.

Engraçado que no início só havia euforia. A vontade de expandir, de criar, de mudar, de amar, de sofrer, de nascer de novo. A vantagem de poder apagar tudo que você é e foi para começar do zero. Todavia, hoje há o medo de ser infiel à si mesmo.

Admito que a ansiedade pela mudança se fortaleceu devido ao cansaço da vida, cansaço dos amigos, cansaço da rotina. Quando uma perspectiva de rompimento tão palpável e alcançável como esta surgiu, permiti que a insatisfação tomasse conta do meu corpo e mente. Julguei-me desnecessário e independente aos outros. Disse: que bom que vou, por que não aguentaria mais ficar.

E menti. Por que a vida real é boa demais. Há dor e amor. Há emoção e tédio. Porém a cada risada, a cada pequeno gesto ou pequena frase que arranca um sorriso no rosto - a cada mínimo instante de leveza - ela vale a pena. A realidade vale a pena. E não sei até que ponto conseguirei viver longe dela.

A ilusão foi pensar que eu levaria tudo que sou comigo. Engano. A minha maior parte fica pra trás: é minha mãe, meus amigos, minha faculdade, meu trabalho, minha casa. O que vai é o casulo vazio, apenas "ligado" a tudo que fica por um fio inquebrantável, pronto pra se encher novamente de coisas boas e ruins, se encher novamente de vida.

Por hora, não posso me importar com o vão que me separará. Quero sair de casa.