O Horror

Se alguém pudesse vê-lo, sentiria o terror frio que as feições do menino maltrapilho demonstravam. Algumas dezenas de metros à sua frente, a multidão se aproximava, e nela ele reconhecia as pessoas da caravana. Mas seus rostos estavam diferentes, mudados, distorcidos, como se suas emoções tivessem sido apagadas de suas mentes. Andavam num ritmo estranho, despassado, atraídos por alguma coisa que não conheciam, e mesmo assim desejavam. Seus corpos também não eram mais os mesmos. Estavam magros, definhados, ossudos e sem músculos.

Era uma multidão cadavérica, faminta, silenciosa e desafiadora.

O menino não teve muito tempo para pensar, nem para gritar. Se pudesse, choraria, cobriria os olhos e pediria a seres superiores que o acordassem deste sonho ruim. Mas ele não podia, não conseguia esboçar nenhuma reação. Lentamente ele se levantou, colocando a mão esquerda na raiz da árvore, se apoiando com as forças que restavam. De forma automática, levantou o braço direito, quase um aceno, e colocou a mão direita sobre a nuca. Sua mão estava gelada, e seu pescoço, ardente, contrastando com o suor frio que encharcava seus cabelos emaranhados. Sentiu o próprio corpo negar os comandos de seu cérebro, e caiu de joelhos no chão. Seus joelhos, agora podia ver, estavam pontudos, salientes; a pele apenas um celofane protegendo a mísera camada de carne até o osso. Suas coxas estavam arqueadas, e suas mãos, pousando sobre elas, pareciam feitas de plástico, enrugadas e ásperas. Olhou para o umbigo, um pequeno bolo de carne no deserto fundo que era seu abdômen. Os mamilos, negros e enrijecidos, acusavam o medo frio que ele sentia. Com espanto, ele pensou em quando esta transformação tinha ocorrido, como ele não se reconhecia, onde ele tinha estado.

Se alguém pudesse ver o menino maltrapilho, acharia que ele era um velho sórdido, corrompido pelo mundo, cruel mesmo sabendo-se abandonado. Esse alguém não sentiria pena. Você não seria solidário. Veria nele tudo o que não quer se tornar.

As pessoas da caravana estavam bem próximas agora. O menino podia sentir o hálito coletivo que emanava daquelas bocas ofegantes. Tomado de horror e ao mesmo tempo aceitando seu destino inevitável, ele se levantou, rangendo os ossos, e esperou ser devorado. A dor seria a última fronteira, avisando que a vida se esvaía, mas confirmando que ainda havia alguma coisa a ser sentida. A dor avisando que estamos vivos. Eles rasgariam sua pele com unhas e dentes, puxariam seus cabelos sujos e desalinhados, arrancariam os olhos de suas órbitas, revelando veias e artérias, sugando o pouco de sangue que restava no corpo do menino maltrapilho. E ele esperava que o banquete caótico durasse muito tempo, o máximo de tempo possível. Só assim ele se limparia, morreria sem arrependimentos, sem medo, sem pecados. Abriu os braços e se entregou.

A multidão chegou. Com os olhos fechados, o menino sentia a presença de todos aqueles fantasmas, demônios e espectros ao seu redor. O bafo quente, os sons ininteligíveis, o arrastar dos pés na terra seca, o cheiro de ausência. Eles o estavam cercando, talvez para impedir com que ele fugisse, ou talvez para que todos tivessem acesso a um pedaço do seu corpo. Ele tremia.

Naquele momento, mesmo sem saber quais tinham sido as circunstâncias e os detalhes que o levaram até ali, o menino aceitou seu destino. E essa aceitação lavou sua alma. As razões não mais importavam, as consequências eram meros resultados de atos esparsos. Uma sequência de ações, muitas sem sentido, a maioria absoluta longe do controle dele. Não mais importava quais teriam sido as intenções dos outros. Para ele, o presente era tudo que existia. Livre de culpa, e finalmente entendendo-se sozinho e dono de seu presente, nosso menino maltrapilho abriu os olhos.

Ouça!

(...)

Cabe tanta música nesses dois minutos de silêncio.

Silêncio que só é válido por incentivar nossa imaginação auditiva. Dois minutos. Tantas notas soltas, curtas e precisas ou extensas e graduais, que a gente nunca sabe de onde vêm, nem quando acabam, cada uma delas uma palavra de amor, de ódio, de ressentimento, de arrependimento. Dois minutos. Também cabem muitos acordes: os maiores, que definem pessoas, lugares, datas; e os menores, que descrevem situações, relacionamentos, críticas. Dois minutos! Cabe tanto som nesses dois minutos que o silêncio se torna um criminoso sorrateiro, o pior dos vilões: aquele que nos tira o que nem sabíamos que poderia nos pertencer. E o preencheríamos com tanta melodia, esses dois minutos desperdiçados, e eles seriam pincelados com variações de tons, criados e recriados com as mais inusitadas cores musicais. Dois minutos. Cabe tanta harmonia, toda uma sinfonia sobre o inferno, sobre os céus, sobre a condição humana!

Mas, silêncio! Ouça.

Black

Even though I know there are still colors, shades and images, I will never be able to see again. My world has become black, surrounded by darkness in its entirety. And as much as I try to remember all the faces, all the landscapes and visual moments throughout my life, all I can see in my head are the ghastly monsters eating my eyes.
Now I take another step, and feel how the firmness and roughness of the asphalt turn into a softer and malleable soil, and the numerous leaves of grass try to tickle my feet. I sense the humidity coming from the Meer, now only twenty yards away. I can hear the voices of children playing next to the lake; can even hear the rustling sound of the sand in their hands, the mothers and nannies gossiping while they watch the boys and girls run about. I can smell the park, the blooming flowers and the greenness of the spring; I can sense the changes in the scenery, the ambiance of optimism radiating from this oasis in the middle of the chaos of sirens, business and routine. The wind and the sun wrestle warming and cooling my face and neck, the whole atmosphere of the park hits me, and with the abruptness of a car crash in front of you, the noise, the commotion, the violence, the shock, I break down.
I hold her hand more tightly. She has become even more to me now.
My trip to Guatemala four weeks before the visit to the ophthalmologist had been a very successful one. I took thousands of pictures of the Mayan temples, and was somehow spiritually challenged when I saw the altar in San Marcos, the marvelous architecture of the ceremonial sites in El Naranjo, covered by the rain forest, the greenest ivies engulfing the huge blocks of sand-like stones, but still maintaining the aura of strength from a civilization that knew, almost twenty thousand years ago, more than we do today about construction, mathematics and astronomy. I spent four days traveling by car, boat and plane, photographing every piece of ancient history I could find. I didn't care much about the text, but the article would look perfect with my pictures.
I called her whenever I could, and when I dreamt it was always about her. In my sleeping bag I wondered what she was doing, if she was writing or having a drink with her friends, if she was cooking or just eating Thai food in front of the television. One night, when we had to sleep by the river Negro, I woke up in floods of tears, and I was sure it was because my whole body ached from being far from her.
I got back and hugged her in the airport as if we had been apart for years. It was always like that. She had been the one who saved me from utter failure; she found me and didn’t let me go. And I wouldn’t let her go either.
But something else had caused those tears by the river. There is a parasite called Onchocerca volvulus, which is found in the feces of the black flies of the genus Simulium. One of those parasites found its way to my ocular structures, reproduced, and caused what is known in South America as “river blindness”. At first it seemed as if my myopia had suddenly worsened, and my ophthalmologist ran a series of tests to detect what was wrong. His expression of hopelessness, staring at a point in the distance while his brain tried in vain to find a solution for my problem is one of the last images I have stored in my brain. The parasites had liked the environment I offered. They quickly infested my retinal blood vessels and obstructed the flow to my cornea and iris, and finally destroyed every single channel of electrical signal, leaving the optic nerve useless. Then they did the same to my left eye.
I was immediately treated with Ivermectin, which paralyzes the worms by interfering with neural ion channels, and the subcutaneous adult worms were surgically removed, but it was too late for my eyes. I had gone completely and irreversibly blind.
When I told her what had happened, and how my life would have to go through a whole new change again, she didn’t despair. She stood by my side, and told me everything would be alright. We started to make plans. She is the optimist, and I merely had to trust her.
Now, at the park, she hands me an apple, and I feel the smooth surface of the fruit, the cold freshness of its smell. I can almost see the redness, and the tone of her skin, her gray dress, the blond hair. I can almost see her smiling at me, trying with all her body to make me feel better, to make me hope.
I bite the apple, and the taste is soothing. I just sit on the grass, and I hear her getting up. I ask where she is going, but there’s no answer. I know she is just standing there, and, a moment later, she is gone.

An Occurence at Ayers Rock

I was unimpressed by the view. After one hour of climbing the rock, and reaching the plateau, I awaited anxiously for the sunset, expecting the sun to become a dying ball of fire on the horizon. And there it was, silently fading away with no glory.
By the second day we had nothing else to talk about. Our impeccable plans had been followed by the letter, just like we did not want them to. There had been no bumps on the road, no flat tires, no unusual encounters, no interesting people. We would sleep on the rock, climb down the next morning, drive for four more days, and get on with our lives with no stories of adventure to tell. All the questions would simply be answered with yes and nos. I looked at my two best friends, and cursed what was ahead of us.
We had decided to climb Ayers Rock because it seemed that it would become a rite of passage into manhood. Our boyish thoughts would cease to exist, even though we wanted our boyish looks to endure at least another decade. Yet, there had been no change. I wanted the feeling of rupture. I wanted something to break inside me.
Without saying anything, we stood up and started looking for a place to camp. We knew we shouldn’t sleep on the rock, because of the “laws” of the aborigines, and not even this transgression gave us any thrills. It was getting dark really fast, and all the tourists, most of them with a disappointed look on their faces, started to climb down. They had to be careful now, because with the winds and the lack of light, the steep climb had become treacherous, and it almost made me laugh when I thought of a tribal chief saying “I told you so”.
We walked east and found a cave. We had to hide from the tour guides, but they seemed so interested in all the money the tourists were practically giving away that they didn’t bother with us. No one had even checked our backpacks. We waited in the cave until it was completely silent, and began to set our sleeping bags.
“Here’s to hell”, whispered Dave, opening a can of Foster’s.
“Well said”, I agreed, “the perfect word to describe our lives”.
Andrew didn’t say anything. He had planned everything so carefully, and he felt as if the lack of excitement was his fault. But it was everyone’s fault. The rock was simply there to show us how meaningless our lives were.
After a couple of beers, there was no other choice but to go to sleep. It was cold, and we couldn’t light up a fire. But the sky was clear enough, and the light from the stars gave the cave a gloomy atmosphere.
We were tired from the walk in the park, and the climb itself had been exhausting. There were still some cans of Foster’s left, but we didn’t feel like drinking. I lit up a cigarette and thought that what we really wanted was to get back to our houses, our mediocre lives, and hope for a disaster in the way.
After half an hour of awkward silence, I fell asleep. I had a dream about an ocean, the deepest ocean, and I was sinking fast. I held my breath for as long as I could, but it was inevitable. The water filled my lungs and I felt strangely warm. It felt like floating, and my eyes got used to the blurriness of the waters. I saw buildings and houses in the bottom, and I recognized my own house. The garden was filled with algae that glowed in the dark. I looked up and saw the stars, the trembling lights trying to cut through the water. Then I felt a strong pull upwards and I didn’t know if I was awake or asleep because I felt like I was soaking wet.
There was someone or something dragging my sleeping bag when I opened my eyes, and I was breathing fast, trying to understand what the hell was going on, still drowsy and already getting dizzy, for I was being pulled in high-speed. I tried to release my arms out of the sleeping bag, but I couldn’t. The reddish dust was getting in my eyes and mouth, and all I could think of was that everything had been a mistake, we shouldn’t have slept on Ayers Rock, we shouldn’t have stolen my father’s car, we shouldn’t have climbed this fucking thing in the middle of nowhere. I was panicking because I couldn’t see my assailant and I had no idea what was happening.
I started spitting the sand out of my mouth and I tasted blood. I screamed the names of my friends at the top of my lungs but there was no answer, not a sound but the loud noises made by the ragging of my sleeping bag against the rocks on the ground. Then it stopped, and my whole body was lifted from my left side, and the lights from the stars shined against the blood on my sleeping bag. I started screaming again but a thump on my head made me shut up. I was sobbing, I was sure my friends were dead and I would soon be too. I didn’t even know if I was hurt, if all this blood on me was mine or not.
I imagined a sacred ritual, a dark ceremony where the trespassers are dissected alive by the aborigines who had successfully deceived everyone into believing there were peaceful. They would strip me naked and skin me alive chanting to their rock god. Or maybe this was their god, the protector of the mountain, doing justice to those who did not obey his law. My delirium was escalating fast, and nothing practical came out of it.
From this angle I could see the entrance of the cave, and with horror I recognized the two sleeping bags, thorn to shreds and also covered in blood. I looked for the bodies, or for signs of escape. But if they had escaped, why hadn’t they tried to save me? If they had been killed, why was I being dragged so far away from the cave? I was being pulled towards the edge of the rock, and I was being lifted by strong hands. I tried to coil in and make myself heavier, because I knew what was going to happen. I would be thrown from the edge. My body would reach the foot of the rock in pieces.
My efforts were useless. I was lifted two meters high, and the stars were all I could see. I felt the strong fingertips on my back, the pressure and the steadiness of the hands, the lack of hesitation. I was slowly lowered so that the impulse was taken, and all I could do was scream.
My body swirled in the air, and I swooped down fast. My left side hit the ground first and I closed my eyes as I heard the dry thump of my arm breaking. I continued to spin on the ground, gaining speed and breaking more bones. I felt my skin breaking as the rags of the sleeping bag stopped protecting it. The pain was unbearable and I knew it would only get worse. My face hit a rock and blood poured out of my nose. I tasted sand in my mouth, and when I opened my left eye for a second I saw my hands in the air, all the fingers in the wrong places, one of them held only by a thread of skin. I shut my eyes tight and hoped to pass out. It will soon be over, I thought to myself.
When my body reached the foot of Ayers Rock I knew I was disfigured and dismembered, but I couldn’t understand why I was alive. My eyelids trembled as I tried to cry. I was surrounded by darkness, and then I heard a voice.
“Alex, wake up! You don’t want to miss this.”
I slowly opened my eyes and saw the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen in my life, and it was the beginning of a whole new life.

Plans

A - Should we take this one?

B - Yeah, it won’t make much of a difference. And I’ve got some time to spare.

A - OK.

B - So, any plans?

A - Plans?

B - Yeah, man. Long weekend. You don’t even know what day it is, do you?

A - Of course I do.

B - So?

A - So what?

B - Plans for the long weekend, man! We were talking about the long weekend that’s coming. What’s going on with you? Pay attention.

A - OK, OK, calm down. No, no plans. I mean, I’ve been thinking. I’ve been trying to make some plans.

B - What are you talking about?

A - I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about my life here. I’m getting sick of this place, you know.

B - We all are.

A - Yeah, but it’s time for a change.

B - So you want to run for mayor? Change the city, then run for governor? So on, so forth, till you’re king of the world?

A - I don’t really care about the world.

B - You just care about yourself. If the world keeps on stinking, but your life gets better, that’s good enough for you.

A - Well, yeah. I have to start with something, and if don’t think about myself, who will?

B - Good point. So what are your plans?

A - I don’t know. But I’ve been thinking.

B - And?

A - I think I’m going north.

B - North?

C - Hey, would you mind holding this for me, please?

B - Sure… Man, what is this?

A - How heavy is it?

B -Very heavy. Too heavy. What’s in this?

C - It’s just my safe.

B - Your safe? Why are you taking your safe on the bus?

C - I always take it with me.

A - What for?

C - Because if it’s at my place somebody may steal it from me.

B - And can’t they steal it from you on the streets?

C - Then I’d know who did it. That would be something.

A - Oh.

B - So you carry this thing around all the time?

C - Most of the time, someone holds it for me. It’s nice, and I take a good look at who’s carrying it. This is my stop. Let me have that now.

B - Sure.

C - Thank you, young man.

A - What the hell was that?

B - That’s people getting crazy because of the world we live in. The world you don’t care about.

A - I do care. But there’s nothing I can do.

B - If everybody said that, nothing would be done.

A - There’s not much being done, is there?

B - OK, this is going nowhere. But you are, supposedly.

A - What?

B - You said you’re going north.

A - Yeah. North.

B - What’s up north?

A - I don’t know, but it seems right. Going up. Making progress. Evolving.

B - Wow. I think you lost me, just like you lost your mind. You’re going to evolve by going north?

A - I don’t know, man. But I got to this point in my life that I either do something or get stuck in the same place, here in this town, on this bus, talking to you, every morning, forever. Nothing else. It’s killing me.

B - OK, I get it. You’re having a bad hair day.

A - More like a bad hair life.

B - But come on, you can’t just leave everything behind.

A - Why not?

B - Because it’s your life. The life you have since you were born. I mean, the life you built…

A - No, this is the life that was built around me. That was already here. I was just born into it. The rest is just… automated responses, I guess. My life, you say. What did I choose in my life? But now it’s over. I’m the new old me.

B - Old? You are a new lunatic, that’s what you are.

A - That may be. But I’m not going to watch my life pass by. I’m through being a spectator. I’ve made my decision, based on everything that is bound to happen if I keep living like this, on automatic pilot. It’s hard to let go, though.

B - When did you have this epiphany, man? Did you dream all this crap?

A - No.

B - Did you just read a self-help book? Have you been reading Paulo Coelho? Tell me the truth.

A - No, man.

B - Then what?

A - I don’t know when. I don’t really know anything. I know I have to go.

B - What about your family?

A - They’ll be glad I’m gone.

B - What about your friends?

A - I’ll send you a postcard.

B - So, you’re really going? Going north with no destiny, just hoping to find something better, a more fulfilling existence. You want to find meaning by escaping from everything and everyone you know. A fresh start, a clean slate. Is that it?

A - Yeah, man. And the time is now.

B - When?

A - Right now.

B - Hey, this is your stop.

A - Not anymore.

The husband

As I was saying, business was slow that day, which made me quite happy. I just sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. In my line of work, it’s nice to have a break. But not so often, because I don’t get any money when I’m on holiday. And I definitely don’t get any money when I don’t get the job done. So, there are no holidays for me. I don’t mind. I do what I was born to do, and that is it. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Then a client stepped in and I had to sit up and look focused. I have bills to pay and I had been daydreaming for too long. She was blunt, in a hurry, gave me all the details, asked for the price and didn’t haggle, which is a good sign, made sure her shades were still on, got up and left. The envelope on my desk was full, maybe even too much. Her husband had only a day left to live.
If I try hard enough, I can remember my first job. It was more of paying off a debt than a job, actually. It was either that or having my fingers cut off, one per week. It was a simple choice. The target was much more in debt than me, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus, and when I approached him and said his name, just to check, he squinted and tried to get his glasses out of his coat pocket, but there was no time to put them on. I shot him right between the eyes, his brains splashed against the cement bench, and it took him a couple of seconds to slip to his left side, dropping the glasses on the floor. I slowly walked away, and all I felt was relief. My fingers were safe.
I know how careless this may have sounded, but, for real, when people see something like that, and they can identify who did it, they are also certain that who did it can identify them. So they just keep it shut.
There were many jobs after this first one. I had many names, many addresses, many customers, many guns, many offices. I made many mistakes, but none affected me. I slept like a baby. Until the last job, the husband.
I never cared why people wanted to have other people killed. Their motives, I mean. It felt such a natural act when I did it for the first time. There was no rush, no sweating, no nervousness. It was a job, nothing else, but this time it paid off. I got the names of the targets, their routines, the way they looked and any other detail that would be relevant. I never cared about their lives, if they would be missed, if they had a brilliant future ahead of them or if they had led a perfect past, if they had children, parents or lovers, if they were crooks or law-abiding citizens. All I cared about was seeing them heave their last breath, and the money that I would get for it.
But there was something else about the husband. Something I couldn’t figure out until it was too late.
I knew what time he would leave his office. I was in place, I was ready, like so many times before this one. The description I had been given was thorough. You know how it works. I saw him. Wearing a dark blue suit over a striped shirt, a red tie and carrying a black suitcase, he stepped out of the office building. He was tall, slim, had dark brown hair and green eyes, was left-handed, had a scar next to the elbow on his right arm and had shaven that morning. I saw all that in a second.
The description she had given me was thorough, not accurate. There was so much more to him than I could possibly have thought. He walked with a strange pace, a rhythm that gave him confidence, like every step he took was meaningful. He stopped to talk to a friend, or a colleague, and his right arm waved to get his glasses out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He smiled and nodded the whole time, he looked interested in whatever it was that the other person was saying. He held his suitcase with his left hand, and his right hand was on his hip, in such a casual manner that made him look so decent, so natural. It seemed like he would always have something to say, and whatever he said would be precise, conscious. His hair was shining against the sun, and behind his thin glasses his eyes were so focused. The other person left and he started walking again, looking at the ground.
I caught myself thinking, for the first time in so many years, what the target was like, what his life was like. I wanted to know about his childhood, where he grew up and what his favorite food was. I imagined him hanging out with friends, his awkward first kiss. The first time he drove a car, the excitement of being in control. The day he decided what he would do for a living, his aspirations and his doubts. The first time he met his wife, the first time they made love and when he was sure she was the one for him. His wedding, the vows he took. The birth of his first child, the anxiety, the expectations. What he thought about the world we live in, his taste in movies, in literature, in music. Everything. And there could be so much, much more to him than met the eye.
He mattered to me, somehow.

I walked up to him and called out his name, and my voice betrayed me. He was in the parking lot, the perfect place, the perfect timing. He stopped and turned around. I was so close to him I could see the little imperfections on his skin, the beard that had already started to grow, each hair in his head, the movement of his chest while he was breathing. I placed my left hand on his right shoulder, and he looked at me not with confusion, but with interest. I looked him in the eye and opened my mouth, but nothing came out. This moment lingered in my mind, although it must have lasted only a couple of seconds. I hesitated, I was unsure.
I shot him in the heart and held his left arm to slow down his fall. He kept looking at me. I shot him again in the chest. He was still looking at me.
I walked away and I knew what I had to do, and that is why I’m here before you. I’m here because I deserve to die; I deserve to pay for my action. I’m here because I no longer want to be what I am, and there is nothing else I can be. I am your client and your target.

A gasp for air

I couldn’t have a dog, my parents wouldn’t let me. The next best thing I could think of was an aquarium. I still hate cats. I wanted seahorses, but do you know how much a seawater aquarium costs? The maintenance for a regular aquarium was cheap enough for my parents. But I never cleaned it. Well, I did, when someone was coming over, or when I was really afraid my fish was going to die. I can’t really remember if it were me or my parents who gave up and threw it away. But there were times when I just sat in front of it and watched the fish, really hoping that his memory was really a ten-second one.

celebration (1998)

i saw a girl today
she was wearing a green dress
walking her cuddly dog
she was whispering songs of love
she was lovely
she was so pure
she was belle beyond compare
watching people rushing around
celebrating nothing with a smile

i saw a boy today
his image blurred in a puddle
running through the park
he was singing poems of his own
he was passion
he was so true
he was struggling for his soul
staring at the sunny blue sky
celebrating nothing with a smile

they met each other without a reason
and in their eyes lay the same treasure
celebrating nothing together
making sure they were ready
they were tender
they were so naive
they were above the world
seizing what was yet to come
and celebrating nothing with a smile

visita

minha irmã veio me visitar hoje. ela estava diferente. trouxe um bolo. não queria demonstrar nenhum sinal de cansaço. não é meu aniversário. não que eu me lembre. sentou-se à minha frente e começou a contar como tinha sido sua semana. a rotina a acalmava, pensei. ela usava uma blusa leve, com uma cor alegre. falava olhando para a minha boca, para o meu queixo, para o meu pescoço. e de repente cruzou os braços e olhou ao seu redor. esfregou as mãos nos braços, como se estivesse com frio. mas não faz frio aqui. nunca faz frio, nunca faz calor. não ouço mais música. voltou-se para mim e continuou. eu percebi que ela tinha respirado fundo. contou que seu filho agora faz aulas de caratê. estava disciplinado, e tinha prometido tirar boas notas. ela se orgulhava dele. a mais nova não urinava mais na cama. mais orgulho. seu marido tinha boas perspectivas na empresa. lembrou-se que eu também tinha uma vida. perguntou o que eu tinha almoçado. se ajeitou na cadeira. tinha cortado o cabelo. pintado, talvez. tentei me lembrar de como estava da vez anterior. mas minha memória não consegue armazenar cores. tinha uma aparência mais sóbria. a blusa tentava disfarçar. inclinou-se um pouco para frente. pensei que ela iria pegar meu braço, me levar até a janela. ela recuou. eu não disse nada. tentando se reabilitar, abriu a bolsa. procurou por algo, sem sucesso. virou-se para mim deu um sorriso triste, franzindo a testa. ela sabia. eu sabia. nunca mais a veria.

banquete

it feels like a thousand years.
it weighs like an entire planet.
it hurts like a million stings.

eu preciso de uma corda, seis nós. tudo que eu disse, todas as músicas que escrevi, ecoaram no vazio. não existe luz no fim do túnel. eu vou voar, posso voar, voar como o superhomem. a água quente vai diminuir a dor nos pulsos. e logo ali na esquina, há uma drogaria. a distância me torna mais belo, mas de perto a água é tão rasa. e a água não é limpa.

Micro história 2 - Estrada

“Sei que estamos apenas começando, mas quero saber aonde estamos indo.” “Eu não sei. Como poderia saber?” “Achei que você soubesse, antes mesmo do início.” “Mas eu não sei. Vai mudar de idéia?” “Claro que não. Eu até prefiro assim.”
E foram.

Micro história 1 - Muita estimação

Ela chegava em casa e corria para o sofá, se escondendo debaixo das almofadas. Ele vinha correndo, arfante, pulava em cima dela, e ia se espremendo entre os espaços livres.
Quando se encontravam, ela o abraçava com a maior paixão do mundo. E o cheirava, muito, para nunca se esquecer dele. Ele a entendia, melhor do que qualquer humano jamais iria entender.