Old Days

    Being there, in that place he knew so well, so well that he had never even realized he missed it until right then, he remembered those times, so long ago, when love was so much easier.
    When with a simple sharp object he could rest his heart knowing that the whole world could eventually read, there, her name in sleazy lines, carved in trees and desks and anywhere he would've seen fit. Honestly, any place where he spent more than a couple of minutes would spark in him a need to do such engravings. He admited to himself that they happened with generous frequence.
    It was hard to point out what had changed so much since then. It did not seem so long ago.
    In fact, nothing else but that seemed to change, at least in his, still primitive and uncomplicated eyes.
But something did cleary change and he could not single out anything in particular.
    No longer did those acts of pure inocence and selflessness had an impact beyond ordinary repulsion.
Not even that many actually managed to stay imune, and resist the consequences of growing older. Most of these, the ones that still thrive, are usually of poor taste and copious creativity.
   
    Grown up love was definitely not an idea he held dear. To him, just the mere sensation of presence from the one he trully adored could turn his most common day into pure heaven.
    And he did not even believe in such religious ornament. Being this heaven so much better than earth, how could he really take this idea as even plausible.
    How could any Paradise be any better than that in which he lives everyday?

Oil for the Machine!

You shove your money into the machine, and, there you go. Out of it pops whatever you wished for, if you can afford it, of course.
We’ve come so far in our own evolution as a species that we no longer look back at our past. We don’t even try to think back to whence our up rise became a fatal plunge into the dark depths of a strange abyss. And the fall has started long ago, which, judging by the circumstances makes for a pretty big abyss that we’ve got ourselves into.
What happened to our own humanity in all this? And if it is still around, where is it in these pieces of paper that we juggle around like if they were the true meaning of our lives?

Is the tree were it comes from worth less than our desire to measure everything we have?
It always seems to come down to “how much”, nowadays.
That truly seems to be the question in everyone’s tongue.

“How much for this?”
“How much do you have?”
Thinking about it, I guess the thing that we really know how to do is estimating values. We know exactly the “fair” price of everything. Even if we don’t really need it.

But the paper keeps feeding the machine. It keeps going in, and things coming out. Here we all are, playing someone else’s game. A game in which we apparently only have to keep looking happy, for the Big Brother somewhere. Keep smiling, and nodding. And strictly saying ‘Yes’ to some very short amount of questions, and a big ‘NO’ to most of all the others.

Got to keep playing that game. Maybe you’ll win. Something.

And here I am…and I can’t help but think what would all this be like if we’d never started playing in the first place. I don’t even like this game, do you?

But the machine is hungry again. Got to keep playing, then.

To: Dora Amor (thank you) 

Conversas com outro alguém.

      É dificil perceber o que nos leva a ser o que nos tornamos. O porquê das decisões e caminhos que tomamos, dos risos e das lagrimas que deixamos transparecer, como se houvesse sempre algures uma plateia atenta a pontuar a convicção com que caracterizamos a personagem que julgamos ser. E actuamos de tal forma que acabamos por apagar das nossas breves memórias o facto de que tudo isto não passa de uma encenação, e , de leve, nos bate sempre a porta o dia em que nas paginas envelhecidas do nosso guião já as nossas falas se esbatem com o branco do papel. E aí... aí já pouco há a fazer. Aí sentimos o vazio da nossa existência e ao olhar ao espelho pouco conseguimos identificar senão as marcas e cicatrizes de outro alguem a esboçarem-se na nossa pele.

      E agora o caminho que deixamos às nossas costas já nos é estranho e mal iluminado. Os planos e sonhos que tinhamos minuciosamente calculado para o futuro já não parecem tão correctos, novas variaveis e erros se multiplicam à equação e algebra nunca foi realmente o nosso forte.

      A escuridão que até então ia, ligeiramente, acompanhando o nosso progresso, ocultando uma a uma as nossas pegadas no passado ameaça agora abater-se também sobre o presente... e, em breve, o futuro se vai fundir com tudo o resto.

      Outrora houve alguém que, como um técnico de luzes controlando a iluminação dum palco numa noite de estreia, fez sentir a sua presença, mantendo sempre os nossos passos e dialogos bem iluminados.
      Outrora, sim. Hoje, estamos  sozinhos e a plateia esconde-se no silêncio guardando os seus aplausos para o final da peça.

      É dificil perceber o que nos leva a ser o que nos tornamos. Uma palavra mal dita? Um passo fora do foco?

      

      Dificil é ver a cortina fechar com tanto ainda por dizer.