Thursday, 25th of May 2017
There is something comforting about taking my socks off, resting my feet on the grass, and emptying my mind from my own howling thoughts… It’s magical permitting myself to feel the abandonment, the freedom from my personality, my middling interests and existing as an improvised tree. There is something magical about don’t move, don’t think, don’t speak. Something magnanimous about being and sparkle the warm-cold light of the dusk… There is something perpetual about my feet against the fuzzy grass that exhale the demons out of my body skin. //End of May and you are still faraway.//
Light is attempting to fade discreetly but is still noon, only 5 o’clock, so why start to fade in such rush?
The night is still so distant from this particular hour, from my notion of time, and as I conjecture about the invention of life, my tea is blowing away a gentle a cloud of steam that blurs the present. But I am not thinking of the past, I am feeling it instead: I am smelling the scent of random moments like a true nostalgic soul.
It’s all so intensely real and everything starts with me breaking my mother’s womb, taking my first handful breath of fresh air, a disperse sun glance over my pale skin and my enormous brown eyes gazing into this new world. In all of these memories, I don’t regret the first steps that I dared to take, I just regret the way that I/we end up living — chained to a material world that doesn’t truly exist.
8th August 2016
I walk alone into a romantic garden where once lovers met, where once someone cried, where once writers wrote meaningful poems to their nymphs and muses… I walk alone into a garden to discover that all of the beautiful things are fragile and soon, to be dead: to become a gentle dust that settles peacefully.
In this garden, everything seems so acoustic and similar to an Andrei Tarkovsky’s movie. Everything reverberates nostalgia and poetry. I walk alone because there is nobody besides me. I walk alone to become one, to find myself in the fragility of this dual world.
Someone once asked me: “Where do you find contentment when everything fails? I answered: In nature, in all the elevated forms of art and in spirituality.”
1st of August 2016
I’ve been sleeping as much as I can to avoid the reality. Lately, I avoid too many things: food, baths, clothes… everything weighs to much on me … It’s hard to walk in peace, my thoughts and feelings are in a turmoil. The simple act of breathing exhaust me so deeply. Is this another metamorphosis? Am I in a state of larvae to later become a butterfly? And why it must hurt so much? Is life an endless metamorphosis?
I want to believe that life has secretly kept a small amount of happiness for me, so I keep praying… Blessed are those who live in contentment and dammed are those who live in disquiet.
They keep words, sentences, stories and stories helps us understand each other better. My next readings will be “A Very Easy Death” by Simone de Beauvoir and “Middlemarch” by George Eliot. Thank you livraria Flaneur .