segunda-feira, 24 de setembro de 2012

Monotonia



Lá estava ele, vagando sob a luz do luar nos escombros da noite. Em sua cabeça, encontrava-se um exato retrato do lugar por onde ele passava: esquinas vazias e escuras, com cheiro de solidão, morbidez. Nada encontrava-se ali, senão pensamentos infortunados e melancólicos sobre si mesmo.“
Na noite anterior, escrevera uma carta de despedida àqueles a quem considerava. Seu gato preto e seu avô, cujos últimos anos de vida foram vivenciados lentamente no quarto ao lado do dele, e cuja morte fora reconhecida primeiramente pelo gato. Ao redigir a carta-bilhete, ele não mediu o sentimento nas palavras, mas mediu o tempo que alguém gastaria lendo aquilo – se é que alguém leria. Ele não queria que ultrapassasse dez segundos.
Latas de refrigerante e energético e maços de cigarro incontáveis esparramados pelo chão ao redor da cama, desarrumada há semanas, era a cena que se estabilizava lentamente em seus olhos ao abrir a porta de seu quarto, onde a luz não penetrava e o cheiro de mofo não desaparecia. Sentia-se em um lugar abandonado. A vista era decadente, mas o que esperar encontrar de alguém com o mesmo perfil? Decadência e imundície, apenas.
Pegou então sua jaqueta preferida – a única –, e andou porta afora. À procura de um isqueiro, sua mão direita adentrava um bolso da calça jeans surrada, enquanto a esquerda apoiava um cigarro no canto da boca. Olhou para trás e avistou o gato; e com aparente apatia, partiu dali. Ouvia-se apenas miados.
02:17 da manhã. Lá estava ele, vagando sob a luz do luar. Indo em direção à estação, andava cabisbaixo, pensativo, com o cigarro ora entre os dedos, ora entre o canto dos lábios. Gatos negros como o seu ronronavam aos seus pés, carentes. Parou na beira da plataforma, à espera do trem. Euforia.
O trem chegava.
Ansiedade.
 Deu um passo para trás, uma longa e última tragada, e foi.
Ouvia-se apenas miados.
E uma multidão alarmada.

Ghosts



                Look at ourselves; we look like ghosts. Not all-the-way dead yet, but unfortunate souls wandering across people’s lives looking for some trouble to be part of. That’s what we do. We don’t look for good moments; we don’t look for those few happy feelings that happen to us in our lifetime. We look for trouble, for angst, for something to worry about. And if you try to convince yourself otherwise, try it: when was the last time you felt completely fine without being interrupted by your own inconvenient thoughts and feelings that that little moment of incredible happiness just couldn’t be happening with you? And then you just feel like everything was wrong and you had to feel bad about something, and then you started over-thinking about your problems and your troubles and your Sunday’s angst, and at the same time, started complaining about how the world is quite unfair and that everything’s just wrong and you are the problem of the world. See? We are our own problem. You are your own problem. Our mind is our problem; and we can’t get rid of it unless we get rid of ourselves first.

sábado, 1 de setembro de 2012

The critical state of hollowness


I enjoy sitting in the corner of the room with the lights off & reminding that things once were a heavier burden for me to carry within. Yet it just doesn't mean that they aren't still as heavy as they once have been. I keep this burden here inside so I’m not injuring anyone else but me, so I’m not being unfair with anyone else, so I’m getting what I deserve & then letting go of it like I let go of people only in appearance; because their ashes are still here inside & they burn me up like I was a home set on fire. I’m a destroyed home, though I’m not a home for my old self any longer, and I keep thinking that maybe this is the right thing, that maybe this is the best, so I won’t be hurt anymore, so I’ll just inhale & exhale this carbon monoxide without harming anyone’s feelings, so I’ll just be me; & being me is hurtful.

I keep myself from things that may harm the within me irreversibly, because the outside might heal someday, though it’s not really accurate since I’ve been injured a thousand years ago & I still can recall these odd & quite sad facts just by a sudden, simple glance at any  mirror before my eyes. I said this is hurtful. I said I am. And I’ve been told so, either.



Fragments of a wandering soul


[…] I looked into the mirror and all I saw was an unknown face staring at me briefly & then turning her eyes down to the sink, wondering, worried, bored, tired of herself, tired of myself. […]

[…] You were just an eclipse in my life; a tiny fading moonlight into the night. […]

[…] I may embrace your feelings like the falling rain embraces my tears, darling. I will heal you, I will hold you till the moonlight fades away in a thousand lightless days. […]

[…] Sometimes I wonder why does this happen, I just wonder & get no answers & then I get sick of myself. […]

[…] I feel trapped, lost and hopeless inside myself. I taste like despair. I taste like nothing. […]

[…]Oh darling, don’t ever forget: those scars & scabs over your body just make me love you more. I’d kiss them all, one by one. I’d hold you tight for eternity & beyond. No, not I would. I will. […]

[…]I think we should meet in another life & stop this wicked one.


 

© 2009Dead Souls | by TNB