quinta-feira, julho 18, 2013
Girls in White Dresses
It comes suddenly. Sud-den-ly, concur the dark bird at a safe distance.
No warning, no sign. Or better yet: there are even anti-signs. Progressively more reliable structures, gradually rising levels of comfort, stable distributions of sane happiness. Not the wild, fleeting kind - the lasting kind, the warm kind.
And then, suddenly.
One, two, three minor disappointments. Petty, unimportant, if taken in isolation. Pretty ridiculous, actually. Yet, when combined, some old and unknown alchemy finds a way into your heart.
A brutal, black tar storm unleashed and indomitable in your mind.
It devours all. Suddenly, the bird nods.
All protections you fought to erect - engulfed, effortlessly. All the little signs of enduring peace you were so proud of - gone, immediately.
Amulets are wind, and you knew it. You want to laugh at the insanity of it all. Migraine, high pitch needles. Do they follow the tar? Do they precede it? Are they it?
Oh sailor, why did you do it? Bury your nails in your palm, for tonight shall pass.
But the sea of tar swallows everything... So suddenly, the bird cries, shaking its head.
Keep your head above the surface, sailor. It is despair that will drown you, not the sea of tar. Remember tonight in your past.
Oh, but it looks endless, timeless, invincible! It is all around, this smothering nothing, this... horizonlessness.
Sailor, find the map in your scars and read it. Focus on something small, a piece of home under your nails. What is it?
The sun rising behind the mountains with the cable cars in Rio.
There, there. Good. Keep going, sailor.
A horse's soft muzzle pressing against my cheek. Finding grandma's pudding inside her fridge before lunch. My very first kitten purring on my chest. Libraries on rainy days. My father's hug, my mother's laughter. The first time I saw it drizzle under London skies. The first kiss that really counted. The first heart I consciously broke.
A song about orange knickers. My guitar instructor's gaping smile. Her fingers stained with blue ink and charcoal. The first time I really fell in love. My first major heartbreak, my first proper 20 pages. The awesome, terrorizing feeling when I first realized I had learned all I could from someone. My first paycheck, my first electric guitar. My first mentor reaching out across a table to shake my hand.
The sound of sky blue sneakers. Her whispers by a fountain. Buckets turned into drums. Our two voices, a dance of chords. Love, at last!, reciprocated and immense. Her fingers in my hair, her skin in my mouth, her eyes piercing mine. My first tie, her first knot. The first diploma that actually counts. Berlin girls and Bayern beer. The time I cried watching her sleep because I loved her enough to leave her. Her eyes when I had to crack her heart open. The never-healing wound she left in my heart in return.
The day I quit my job and gingerly walked 7.5 kilometers back to school. The feather-light boyish joy of casual relationships. The horrifying relief of finding an author that writes as if they had been spying on me for years. Crying under a flag twice - once rejoicing and entering, once burnt and leaving. Singing drunkenly through the streets with two of the best, most loyal friends I'll ever have. Pushing away a third one, so I could welcome her back for good. The warm, reliable camaraderie of soccer.
Falling madly in love at first sight. Waiting and hoping for her to let herself love me back. (And then: smilingly realizing that she did, eventually). Her voice, heavy, saying my name and opening all my locks. Her words, light, closing all my wounds. Kissing her under a crucifix, having her underneath me. The ocean of her in my life. The simple, stable, joy of living in Toronto. The first and only time she scared me. My favorite ice cream shop. Seeing Cambridge's bridges for the first time. The second diploma that counts. The comforting feeling of a baseball's seams on my fingers. Another mentor reaching across the table to offer me a tissue. The third diploma that counts. The first home I got to put together. The streets of Barcelona. That time I mourned for weeks, singing "shame, shame, for letting me think that I'd be the one"...
See, sailor? The night is almost done. Remember the truth in your scars: tonight has happened before.
Tonight shall pass, the bird assents reassuringly outside.
No warning, no sign. Or better yet: there are even anti-signs. Progressively more reliable structures, gradually rising levels of comfort, stable distributions of sane happiness. Not the wild, fleeting kind - the lasting kind, the warm kind.
And then, suddenly.
One, two, three minor disappointments. Petty, unimportant, if taken in isolation. Pretty ridiculous, actually. Yet, when combined, some old and unknown alchemy finds a way into your heart.
A brutal, black tar storm unleashed and indomitable in your mind.
It devours all. Suddenly, the bird nods.
All protections you fought to erect - engulfed, effortlessly. All the little signs of enduring peace you were so proud of - gone, immediately.
Amulets are wind, and you knew it. You want to laugh at the insanity of it all. Migraine, high pitch needles. Do they follow the tar? Do they precede it? Are they it?
Oh sailor, why did you do it? Bury your nails in your palm, for tonight shall pass.
But the sea of tar swallows everything... So suddenly, the bird cries, shaking its head.
Keep your head above the surface, sailor. It is despair that will drown you, not the sea of tar. Remember tonight in your past.
Oh, but it looks endless, timeless, invincible! It is all around, this smothering nothing, this... horizonlessness.
Sailor, find the map in your scars and read it. Focus on something small, a piece of home under your nails. What is it?
The sun rising behind the mountains with the cable cars in Rio.
There, there. Good. Keep going, sailor.
A horse's soft muzzle pressing against my cheek. Finding grandma's pudding inside her fridge before lunch. My very first kitten purring on my chest. Libraries on rainy days. My father's hug, my mother's laughter. The first time I saw it drizzle under London skies. The first kiss that really counted. The first heart I consciously broke.
A song about orange knickers. My guitar instructor's gaping smile. Her fingers stained with blue ink and charcoal. The first time I really fell in love. My first major heartbreak, my first proper 20 pages. The awesome, terrorizing feeling when I first realized I had learned all I could from someone. My first paycheck, my first electric guitar. My first mentor reaching out across a table to shake my hand.
The sound of sky blue sneakers. Her whispers by a fountain. Buckets turned into drums. Our two voices, a dance of chords. Love, at last!, reciprocated and immense. Her fingers in my hair, her skin in my mouth, her eyes piercing mine. My first tie, her first knot. The first diploma that actually counts. Berlin girls and Bayern beer. The time I cried watching her sleep because I loved her enough to leave her. Her eyes when I had to crack her heart open. The never-healing wound she left in my heart in return.
The day I quit my job and gingerly walked 7.5 kilometers back to school. The feather-light boyish joy of casual relationships. The horrifying relief of finding an author that writes as if they had been spying on me for years. Crying under a flag twice - once rejoicing and entering, once burnt and leaving. Singing drunkenly through the streets with two of the best, most loyal friends I'll ever have. Pushing away a third one, so I could welcome her back for good. The warm, reliable camaraderie of soccer.
Falling madly in love at first sight. Waiting and hoping for her to let herself love me back. (And then: smilingly realizing that she did, eventually). Her voice, heavy, saying my name and opening all my locks. Her words, light, closing all my wounds. Kissing her under a crucifix, having her underneath me. The ocean of her in my life. The simple, stable, joy of living in Toronto. The first and only time she scared me. My favorite ice cream shop. Seeing Cambridge's bridges for the first time. The second diploma that counts. The comforting feeling of a baseball's seams on my fingers. Another mentor reaching across the table to offer me a tissue. The third diploma that counts. The first home I got to put together. The streets of Barcelona. That time I mourned for weeks, singing "shame, shame, for letting me think that I'd be the one"...
See, sailor? The night is almost done. Remember the truth in your scars: tonight has happened before.
Tonight shall pass, the bird assents reassuringly outside.
