Subindo a ladeira da Helena

A Realidade da Felicidade

São todas iguais, as pessoas.

Passando e andando

e brigando e piscando

e amando e malhando

e vivendo.

Então como posso eu ser

assim tão diferente?

Eu também ando e penso.

E piso e pisco e penso.

E canto e danço e brinco

e penso.

Meu pensamento voa.

Voa tanto que se perde

na imensidão disforme

e absoluta e absurda

onde o real encontra o irreal

e se torna surreal.

O que seria da realidade sem mim?

Ela, tão absoluta e absurda.

E eu, tão diferente e indulgente.

E o que seria de mim

sem a metafísica das árvores?

E as luzes e as sombras da cidade?

E o brilho eterno e fútil da felicidade?

Fétidas são as minhas lembranças

e de uma esgotada esperança.

E só a grama e a lama

e a saudade de quem se ama

que me fazem continuar a sonhar e a esperar.

Poema que um total desconhecido escreveu para mim e me deu de presente no Rosas ontem

A prosaica dona
dos olhos de sombra preta
e sua pele branca

A síntese do contraste

Rainha dos argumentos
das mãos incessantes
articulando pensamentos.
Viés da possível noite da vida,
e de seus momentos.

Dedicado aos meus amigos Uffanos que ficam pirigoteando comigo no Deguste. =D

Multiplicidade

A vida daqui existe
Com um intervalo enorme.
Essa vida paralela
Nos deixa divididos entre
Duas realidades alternativas.

- Mas a multiplicidade é uma das
Chaves para a felicidade...

Não se pode aproveitar a
Complexidade e a
Intersubjetividade da vida
Experienciando somente uma
Das ilimitadas facetas
Da existência humana.

Regressando à minha língua materna... poema feito na aula de Teoria e Linguagem Cinematográfica.

Pensamento

Meu pensamento voa
Leve, longe, livre.
Ele vaga, sem rumo.
Explora novos lugares
E reconhece outros,
Antes já visitados.

Meu pensamento devaneia
Busca sequências lógicas
Ou imagens lindissímas.
Se deslumbra com idéias loucas,
Que deixam minha mente ligada.

Meu pensamento brinca
Se diverte com coisas simples,
Associações absurdas
E figuras inimagináveis.
Fica rindo à toa, fazendo
Combinações estapafúrdias.

Meu pensamento inova
Reinventa os signos,
Revoluciona os parâmetros,
E quebra todos os conceitos.
Quer mudar o mundo inteiro
Com sua imaginação inquieta,
Que subverte as realidades.

Nothing to say here

Talk

I don't wanna talk about it.
But there's no escape.
The only way to relieve this pressure on my chest
is to exploit what's underneath it,
Ask myself the questions I'm avoiding to answer.

What lies on the bottom of my heart?
And makes me breakdown and loose it?
What is it that keeps my conscience busy?
Makes me worry about this place stagnant
where I stand static?

I don't wanna talk about it.
Talking seems to make it all so real.
It takes away this vivid memory
of a perfect dream.
It makes me desperate, restless, anguished.
I wanted to seize it for a while longer.
Just for a while, before it's all over again.
But who saids I can?

Don't want to talk about it.
But can't help to think of this.
The thoughts come loose,
dazing through my mind.
I try to repress them, shudder them off,
focus on something else - but all's in vain.
The mind's alive and the conscience
has its own will, I can't control it.

-There's nothing to talk about, really.
Lier. You know talking is all there is to it.
And yet, you continue to refuse it.
So come on, keep up fooling them all,
but you won't fool me.

I'll just resume playing the same record,
over and over again,
Until you realize there's no point
in pretending not to know
all the lyrics to this songs.

Latest work...

Closeness

I'm standing alone in the dark
and you come asking me what to do.
-What can I do to make it better?
But I tell you it won't get better...
Can't you see it won't get better anyway?

-How can I make it work?
It won't work. Don't you see?
You can't help it... Nothing can.
It is stronger than I am.

I can't stop it. You won't stop it.
'Cause it's never gonna' stop.
-Are you sure?
Well... I don't know.
At least I don't think so.

It's just... Sometimes I can't let go.
Something won't let it get well...
And I can't explain what it is,
but I can't help it.
Somehow I increase it.

Actually, I don't want to be like this.
I wish it'd get better, but I can't. I won't.
I need this feeling to enter my skin
by the tips of my fingers.

Let it build up inside my body,
In a growth that will consume my entire soul.
Until I haven't reached that place,
where the air is so heavy it's unfit for breathing,
I will never be able to open my self up againg.

Closeness is the idealized object that crave,
the one that feeds my anguish, and I
don't think it will be easier on me no more.
How can it be, after I've experienced
such a sore burden for so long?
How can I hope to feel good about this,
when all I can receive is this empty nothingness?

I've found and lost some part of me. A part that's
external to my body, in wich I rediscover myself.
It renewed me. I could, at last, apreciate all of mine intricacy.
But all of this was taken away from me.

It ripped my guts into pieces. There's nothing left of it.
Only this invisible hole within me.
That keeps slowly bleeding and bleeding...
Painfully tormented. With no one to mend it.
All I want is to put an end to it.

A clowdy rainy mardy tuesday's result.

Nothingness

The closeness to the nothingness is growing faster and faster. Emptyness is the medicine for a harmed heart that will always die hard.
I try to prevent it. I try to keep up with it. I try to fight it. But it's worthless - I always end up embracing it.

When it's too much, I can never have enough. When it's too scarce, I long just to have a spare. When I can't have it, all the world's too heavy. Everything's dim and everyone's done. I just wanna be alone.

Alone and shrunken. Just like a wanker. Feeling the numbness. Hearing the rain. Seizing the plain. Lifting the pain. Wondering and wondering it all over again.

-Could this be, yet again? Would it be the same?
It won't be the same. This can't be, again. Don't you understand?
But I don't. I can't...
-I ain't!
I should never loose faith. 'Cause stop beliving is stop existing.