The irrelevance of the solstice
I take back what I said because the words just float down the river, obsessed with a drift of perfection. “You don’t exist”, you said in love with the rude phrase as if I were still in front of you. Right. What is this about grunting, spelling or writing? Where does the bluff take us? When did it all start?
It unites us with a spirit and a saint so sacrilegious that a blushing God hid and will remain so until the end of our time. The shapeless mass of things insists on sticking eyelids together. I hardly distinguish, on the surface of the sieve, the flour of the days, the granules of the nights, pieces of souls and fimbriae of bodies.
Blindfolded I proceed. And looking forward, I remember there was some existence. In it he drank the alcoholic humus and the whitish sap of a thousand generations. Then I realized the lesson of becoming dust and making myself in the winds from infinite directions. And in that tiny state I find myself sober while I disperse.
In that condition, I will enter your eyes even though you never see me. Your hand will travel the air without touching me. I will be the minimum mosquito in your ears, the persistent buzz of matter, the shape of the abyss to be crossed. In that field of the dead I will be all of them, the fallen weapons and I will be nothing.
Multitudes of sleepwalkers chase their own body at night in an eternal eagerness to find. Even supposing that they do so without cunning or the use of reason, they will still sleep handcuffed to dreams, of which at dawn there will be no memory. A fruit remains to be harvested on the glabrous tree of love
Return to the road of displeased feelings. It is time to shelter reckless travelers, to the sound of frogs that croak at the edge of volcanoes. It is impossible to fly. The twin band passes, the appropriate band, blowing the serious music of funerals. The usual ride of cannibalistic valkyries. The sound of blood does not respect the desires of silence, until the vacuum of the mind overlaps. The ocean vomits corpses on a country’s sands. Only the dead are interested in his name, his fame, the shapeless wealth of his people. Nobody knows what to do. There is not much to eat and drink, a cloudy rest is burning in the throat. We fall without speech, the suitcase floats where our precarious lives fit.
The virus separates mountains from valleys and cities from wetlands. Right there where we were supposed to be happy. The virus does not separate anything that was not already separated, even though it seemed to be tangled, filled with party. I noticed a man dressed in the sun and a woman dressed in the moon. He was shivering cold. She burned with raw fever. In the transparency of the skins, a vein regurgitated, perhaps an ancient truth. So old that no one remembered its language.
We will have to wait for the translation of the times. And confine the laments that echo as a chorus. There are millions of voices, daughters of the invisible tower that reached the sky. All of them piercing like swords, clenched like fists, joined like pomegranates. “I don’t understand your language”, you said. And there was nothing to understand in the gestures that the voice made. I will be lame, I will be blind, I will be king and tramp. I will paint the sky the purple that my mother taught me. Of all this nerd world, it was the color I had left. A strong color, acetone flavor, covering an invisible firmament.
Multitudes of sleepwalkers chase their own body at night in an eternal eagerness to find. Even supposing that they do so without cunning or the use of reason, they will still sleep handcuffed to dreams, of which at dawn there will be no memory. A fruit remains to be harvested on the glabrous tree of love.
Today the day will stand out for its excessive length and a negative addition of shadows. The light will rise like an addiction. I approach the window, still naked but already tired, and catch the first ray of a solstice on my skin. The planet rotates and soon other days will be born. I will not stay the same. Everything I have done or undone, what I have read or invented, hospital or cliff, will not reach the grave when my time comes.
*Journalist and writer
Este artigo está disponível em: Português