Éramos quatro – sem saber
(e as imagens uma da outra).
Eu, você e a incerteza.
Eu e a ausência.
ao som de: The xx – Together
Memory is a funny thing. I don’t think mine is improving – it’s definitely not saving new information. It’s not getting worse either – I’m not forgetting what I’ve already been through. My memory is frozen. From that day on, I can’t remember where or if I went somewhere for the weekend. I can remember the travelling of my fingers down your spine, though.
Time froze. Not the good kind that you live forever in a happy moment. Time froze because nothing else happened after that. Time froze because there’s no way I can measure its passing without seeing the blink of your eyes. Time froze because I can no longer comprehend the movement of sound since you no longer whisper your name in the shell of my ear. Time froze because there’s no light anymore since the last thing I saw was your shadow.
I can’t fathom time. I don’t think I ever did. Because memories keep mixing. There’s no reality. Because there’s no reference of it, since what I’ve lived and what I’ve been dreaming of are so far apart that the only way for me to keep going is to pretend that sometimes they have collided.
I don’t ask who and where are you anymore.
I question myself when am I.
listening while writing: Sophia Knapp – Evermore
She called me and even though I hate talking on the phone, I answered it. We started talking about how we hate our jobs. Then, about how we hate some people. Thing is, there’s a lot of hate inside us. Not in the actual sense – we’re not wishing anything bad to people – hate is just our default function by now. It’s what happens when you keep all bottled up inside.
Suddenly, the conversations shifts:
– So, you think you love her?
– I don’t fucking know. I think what keeps bringing me back is the possibility of it, you know? What I’d love is to uncomplicate the whole situation. That’s my thing.
– Yeah. I could… never relate to that. And she’s with someone else?
– That’s what I’ve been hearing.
– You don’t pick easy huh. So, my unsolicited advice here is actually a question: if this wasn’t a lost cause, would you even consider it? Is that the whole appeal?
And with that, I didn’t necessarily learned who I was, but rather who I would become if lost causes were my pattern. If it’s a lost cause, the concept is simple: failure is inherent – not a possibility. And I just couldn’t deal with having failure as a starting and ending point anymore.
listening while writing: Fiona Apple – Sleep To Dream
No cantinho do café (expressão que me lembra muito Os Aspones – que saudades):
– O horóscopo hoje começa com: “Romantismo”. Parei de ler por aí.
– Nem me fale. Quem tem tempo? Romance é um PF pro almoço.
– Daquele jeito… como é que falam? “Acordei e até agora não vi vantagem”.
– Bem isso. É fogo, viu.
ao som de: MS MR – Bones
there’s a definite difference between what my bloodstream tells me and what I feel in my bones.
the first is related to movement, action, heat. the quiet notion that, while I may not always realize, everything in me is a flow.
the latter is stagnate, structural, cold. the resistance that may appear when necessary, but is hidden under skin and nerves.
this is exactly how I feel in life.
the bloodstream means my desires and passion. mistakes could mean a cut – and I could bleed out. it’s dangerous, it makes me dizzy – weak even. but there’s also something fascinating about that possibility. the consequence would be a wound, a scar – a proof actually, that I’ve tried. sometimes all you need is to see that there is, indeed, blood. there’s no band-aid, you just need to feel the flow path.
the bone means my necessity of safety. the deep part that I often try to protect, even though it is also the strongest sensation coming from my body. it’s the shield and yet the last layer. the hesitance present here has nothing to do with being sincere or honest, but the fear of offering everything, being drained – only for it not being enough. when the bone is exposed, raw and vulnerable, and not taken care of, there’s nothing left, except the shell of what once was a person.
listening while writing: The Roots mix