SAD(ly mistaken)

You’ve been my golden best friend
Now with post-demise at hand
Can’t go to you for consolation
Cause we’re off limits during this transition

This grief overwhelms me
It burns in my stomach
And I can’t stop bumping into things

I thought we’d be simple together
I thought we’d be happy together
Thought we’d be limitless together
I thought we’d be precious together
But I was sadly mistaken

You’ve been my soulmate and mentor
I remembered you the moment I met you
With you I knew god’s face was handsome
With you I suffered an expansion

This loss is numbing me
It pierces my chest
And I can’t stop dropping everything

I thought we’d be sexy together
Thought we’d be evolving together
(...)
But I was sadly mistaken

If I had a bill for all the philosophies I shared
If I had a penny for all the possibilities I presented
If I had a dime for every hand thrown up in the air
My wealth would render this no less severe

I thought we’d be genius together
I thought we’d be healing together
I thought we’d be growing together
Thought we’d be adventurous together
But I was sadly mistaken

Thought we’d be exploring together
Thought we’d be inspired together
I thought we’d be flying together
Thought we’d be on fire together
But I was sadly mistaken


Alanis Morissette, Simple Together

Captain Corelli's Mandolin

Iannis: When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the desire to mate every second of the day. It is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every part of your body. No... don't blush. I am telling you some truths. For that is just being in love; which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting, does it? But it is!

......................................................................................

Iannis: [writing to Corelli] Antonio, I do not know if this letter will reach you, or even if you are alive. Perhaps someone else sent your record, and that is why we found no note. I would like to say that Pelagia is happy, but she is full of tears she will not let fall, and of a grief no doctor can mend. She blames herself for the pain we have suffered, and perhaps the same is true for you. You know I am not a religious man, but I believe this: if there is a wound, we must try to heal it. If there is someone whose pain we can cure, we must search till we find them.

Absolutely.

George: Do I still Love you? Absolutely. There is not a doubt in my mind. Through all my mind, my ego... I was always faithful in my love for you. That I made you doubt it, that is the great mistake of a life full of mistakes. The truth doesn't set us free, Robin. I can tell you I love you as many times as you can stand to hear it and all that does, the only thing, is remind us... that love is not enough. Not even close.

Life as a House, 2001

Life as a House

George: I always thought of myself as a house. I was always what I lived in. It didn't need to be big. It didn't even need to be beautiful. It just needed to be mine. I became what I was meant to be. I built myself a life. I built myself a house.

George: You know the great thing, though, is that change can be so constant you don't even feel the difference until there is one. It can be so slow that you don't even notice that your life is better or worse, until it is. Or it can just blow you away, make you something different in an instant. It happened to me.

P.S. I sure hope it happens to me and you...

and you and you....

and you!

...sei lá de quê

"O meu mundo não é como o dos outros, quero demais, exijo demais, há em mim uma sede de infinito, uma angústia constante que nem eu mesma compreendo, pois estou longe de ser uma pessimista; sou antes uma exaltada, com uma alma intensa, violenta, atormentada, uma alma que não se sente bem onde está, que tem saudade... sei lá de quê!"

Florbela Espanca

Urgências

Dias de agonia, de dor física. O meu corpo deu de si. Depois de uma semana a lutar contra uma inflamação maldita, que insistiu em ficar e resistir. Urgências! Injecções, agulhas e soro. A enfermeira diz-me que deixei as veias em casa, que estão demasiado fundas. Ainda pensei explicar-lhe que nos dias que passam de facto não as sinto, não me sinto. Arrasto-me, cansada e exausta de tanta letrinha miudinha. Desespero com preocupações de natureza óptica. Eu bem te disse que nas terras do Liz faz muito frio, que sem ti ... não sou eu... não existem forças, nem ânimo apenas eu a lutar para sobreviver a "tempos" difíceis. Ficámos ambos suspensos em tempos e espaços separados. Será que alguém poderá dar corda a este relógio gigante??? Ambos somos e seremos sempre eternos estudantes, a realização pessoal reveste-se de razões que nos movem e alentam. Somos tão parecidos nisso. Tenho saudades e não me canso de te dizer. Já nem sei se EXISTES mesmo se és fruto da minha imaginação... mas quando olho para as minhas mãos e caio na tentação de fazer as contas, a constatação de que uma mão já não chega rouba-me duplamente a vida.

Urgências:

- Estabelecer prioridades;

- Pensar em estratégias inteligentes para obter o que preciso;

- Tropeçar em ti!*

* O mais depressa possível...

Escrever(-me) continuamente

A escrita é a minha primeira morada de silêncio

a segunda irrompe do corpo movendo-se por trás das palavras

extensas praias vazias onde o mar nunca chegou

deserto onde os dedos murmuram o último crime

escrever-te continuamente... areia e mais areia

construindo no sangue altíssimas paredes de nada

esta paixão pelos objectos que guardaste

esta pele-memória exalando não sei que desastre

a língua de limos

espalhávamos sementes de cicuta pelo nevoeiro dos sonhos

as manhãs chegavam como um gemido estelar

e eu perseguia teu rasto à beira-mar

outros corpos de salsugem atravessam o silêncio

desta morada erguida na precária saliva do crepúsculo


Al Berto, O medo
Lisboa, Assirio & Alvim, 1997

As cores não estão nos seus lugures, mas será que tem lugares? As cores estão tristes, mas será que sentem? As cores frias esqueceram-se de confraternizar com as cores quentes. As cores andam perdidas. Esqueceram-se que a vida se esgota como o virar de uma ampulheta.