quinta-feira, 19 de setembro de 2013

Do pó ao pó

                Mudou de nome. De lugar. De endereço. Mudou de vida, mas eu te encontrei. De novo. Não havia mais cartas suas na minha caixa de correios. Eu lamentava pela falta que sentia da sua caligrafia. Tão doce, mas tão fria, ao mesmo tempo. Direta, sempre escorregando em algumas pontuações. Charme seu. Ou apenas defeito, que meu eu tende a caracterizá-lo. Mas eu te encontrei. Tentastes fugir de mim? Uma pena – isso soaria rude, mas com toda a afinação e tranquilidade do mundo, minha voz diria “sou mais esperta”. Sinto falta de teus dedos tocando minha pele, criando rastros invisíveis que eu poderia seguir durante uma vida. Mas eles nunca foram meus, não é mesmo? Os rastros, os dedos, o íntimo. Você. Não havia mais eu dentro de seus olhos. Era apenas você. Não havia mais você e eu em minhas palavras, ou era você, ou era eu – nunca na mesma frase como dois sujeitos prestes a entrar em um colapso verbal. E boom!
, ambos explodimos. Só que não sai faísca. Saem palavras com tons suaves de quem chora a noite tapando os soluços com o travesseiro, ou de abraços calados durante a madrugada à espera de um pouco de calor, mas em vão. Não há ninguém ali. Apenas as palavras, seus tons e suas cores. Não havia mais cores dentro de mim. Nunca houve – mas contigo você trouxe. Um pouco ali, um pouco aqui. E, de mim, originou-se uma tela. Sua tela. Que agora não guarda mais tinta, escorridas em meio ao cinza durante inúmeros invernos. Só resta a poeira – sobre mim e sobre as cartas. Suas cartas. Que agora não me alegram mais.

sexta-feira, 13 de setembro de 2013

Words of nothingness

                  Words have fallen out of my mouth and they look so hollow from within, just like me right now.

Hummingbirds

                  I just wish I could fly away, get rid of these brittle bones and find a new home somewhere else.

segunda-feira, 2 de setembro de 2013

Tales of an unfortunate daily basis



                It was late at night. He woke up and put on a t-shirt only for a walk inside his own house. Lights off, he knew all the way down to the kitchen. Things couldn’t be worse, he thought, when he saw that there was nothing stored in the pantry. Actually, there was. But nothing he was up to eat in that moment. To be honest, he didn’t eat for three days; tonight count as the third night in a row. Nothing in mind to explain this attitude, he just wanted to be “cleaned up” from all the dirt outside his mind, since the dirt from the inside he just couldn’t get rid of.
                It was past 2am already. He lied down on the couch in the living room in that little apartment which he was late at paying the bills. The money he gets from his part time job is all spent in beers - that he bothers buying to drink up alone in his apartment – he couldn’t stand the company of others. They simply cause repulse on him; he just couldn’t stand the way others open the beer bottles, he couldn’t stand the way they drink, the way they threw away those empty bottles in the sidewalk at night. He couldn’t stand the empty conversations and the unbearable babbling of those drunk folks in the pub. “Please, just shut the fuck up”, he always thought.
                He took some beer bottles and put them on the table. He was alone that night, like he has been all his life. “At least I have these bottles to talk to. Could you imagine what would it be of myself without them?” he asks himself, staring at the bottle he just opened up. “Could you? I’d be nobody, or maybe some of those drunken old men stumbling in the streets.” He is alone this night. He is a loner. Could you imagine what would it be of him without all this loneliness? He would be like a rat, possibly, entering into old houses looking for something to eat. It could be a woman or some meat. He would be nothing. But he’d rather be nothing than be a suit man pretending to adore his own awful life around people just like him, living around money and new houses and new expensive cars. He'd rather be dead.

domingo, 1 de setembro de 2013

Crimson crying



                From these blood stained clouds, let it all rain over our black shallow hearts. Let it wash away our sorrow from the past years and from now, let it just rain away. We could be together holding hands in the middle of the street, watching the rain pouring down inside us its crimson crying, and we’ll feel like new old people by the end of the day.
 

© 2009Dead Souls | by TNB