It is a truth universally acknowledged, that every single man is in pursuit of something.
As is every woman
That somehow brought them together
And she soon came to realize
she didnt know him at all
the man whose boy
she had known for years
(Might they be trying to bring togheter who they had dreamed to be and who they became)
That he wanted so much to be known
to be acknowledged for whom he was
For being honest meant keeping it real
And no surreal dreamy days
would ever be
something else than long past days
with no such honesty

It takes an honest man
To open up a woman's heart
There it was
a glimpse of blue sky
behind the shaddy grey clouds she left behind
It was all about vocabulary
A greater toolbox he would say
and she couldnt agree more

It might have been for years
the longest she had spoken in a foreign language
the deepest she had felt
no not deep but real
lovely at home

It finally became
Thank god
impossible to go back
To be at the same place he sad
not running away from something
true she knew it was
It takes two people looking towards something to be togheter he sad
she knew it to be true
It takes two
honest people
for live to be real
death bearable to be
It takes two
to love
It could be
there would not a future for those days to be
but there they were
like a graveyard
lost in the darkness of the night
burying her past.

It was the first time in her life she was truly satisfied the past would never come back
That she felt absolutely free
and rejoiced the fact
acknowledged
how deeply exciting it was
not knowing what future could be

The Beast in the Jungle - Henry James

“The escape would have been to love her; then, then he would have lived. She had lived – who could say now with what passion? – since she had loved him for himself; whereas he had never thought of her (ah, how it hugely glared at him!) but in the chill of his egotism and the light of her use. Her spoken words came back to him, and the chain stretched and stretched. The beast had lurked indeed, and the beast, at its hour, had sprung; it had sprung in the twilight of the cold April when, pale, ill, wasted, but all beautiful, and perhaps even then recoverable, she had risen from her chair to stand before him and let him imaginably guess. It had sprung as he didn’t guess; it had sprung as she hopelessly turned from him, and the mark, by the time he left her, had fallen where it was to fall. He had justified his fear and achieved his fate; he had failed, with the last exactitude, of all he was to fail of; and a moan now rose to his lips as he remembered she had prayed he mightn’t know. This horror of waking – this was knowledge, knowledge under the breath of which the very tears in his eyes seemed to freeze.”

E. E. Cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are better fate
than wisdom 
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no paranthesis

e também poderia ter sido no dia em que Léo casou...

Aquilo tudo parecia muito inusitado e pretensioso. Cheirava a comida requentada. Sua cabeça, sua cabeça doía muito. As pílulas... será que as pílulas fariam efeito? Olhou-se no espelho, seu rosto nunca fora tão belo. Parecia que estava de porre ha três dias. Os cabelos caiam pesados em frente a seus olhos. Deixou-se cair, os olhos doíam. Dormiu sobre as folhas do manuscrito. Esse, onde estas linhas estão escritas.

O adeus nunca fora autêntico, era faz de conta, como a brincadeira de contar histórias para seu amado adormecido. Era como a melancolia do desejo e das lágrimas desmaterializadas. Um grande jogo esperando pela próxima jogada. Apenas em seus pensamentos ela era ensaiada. O medo do sofrimento, do sangue e da imaginação; seu amigo e o amante em tesão, desmaterializava-se pouco a pouco. Pouco a pouco seu corpo apodrecia, o útero escorria, e os peitos murchavam. Naquela idade já estava cega e lia as palavras. Uma jovem lhe contara sua história de outra encarnação. A sina de poder apenas escrever sua própria história era o preço do manuscrito. O desespero que fazia a mão deslizar pelo papel, o preço da capa de couro com letras douradas. O sono de menino velado pela mãe sempre estivera distante. Nos seus braços era apenas tremor, terror, pesadelos e decepção. Era o umbigo de laranja estéril. Nas folhas que não pertenciam ao manuscrito escreveu – recopiou. Pois todas as outras palavras jaziam perdidas. As palavras, as palavras que nunca são ditas, mas que são a única verdade plausível dão medo, amedrontam e são serenas. Já podia deixa-las flutuar sem sentir dor. O verbo, afinal não existia, tampouco sonhos. Apenas a fria, por vezes requentada realidade do dia a dia. A falta de espaço, espaço infinito dentro de nós. Palavras que não se sustentavam sozinhas, que pediam a confirmação do olhar, do corpo e do resto de lembranças e desejo adormecido. A sopa esfria na mesa de jantar. Só são corajosas porque não pedem nem dão explicação. Única coisa viva além da soleira da porta. A porta era uma brincadeira de criança. Era o medo do portão. Do lado de fora. Era apenas desconcertante ilusão. Por baixo dela chegavam palavras, chegavam sussurros, mas não se encontravam os corpos. No final de todas as linhas a palavra era – adeus. 

it does

does not

it doesn’t interfere

does not make any difference at all

there is nothing else

but air, thin time

dust

between you and me

everything unfold

folded like fresh linen

dark blue cotton linens under the bed

under everyday

every sunshine which touched my skin

my body lying on your bed

and you told me

oh yes you told me

– give yourself to me.

And, oh yes, so I did.

Did you see?

no, you probably didn’t.

as much as you don’t know when the trash truck comes

you did not notice at all

that point exactly where the sun falls down

there where night rises

and it might even be

that you didn't even see

no you didn’t see at all

all the love there was there

all that was given to you to me.

yes I told you as I folded your shirts

guitar magazine oriented

how so much of it all

would always surpass

whatever effort we had made

because the beauty lied within

besides being unpredictable

being given

not taken, nor granted

like all love should live. 

And if sometimes before all I wished for was to keep

to hold and never forget

slowly

as the days passed by,

all I wished for

as much as this feeling was soaked into sad tears which never left my eyes

was to forget

to let everything go away

to let it all follow whatever star’s light into oblivion

to let every memory, every word, every kiss

disappear into dust

there was no difference at all

if in the dust of my own going away steps

the dust your bike leaves behind itself on the road

nor the dust from any other galaxy far away

dust from body, movement or gear

dust as gold

diminishing it all

into billions of tiny subatomic pieces

My heart was still in one

but everything else felt apart

and nothing from it all wished I to retain

nor even words

though I needed them

I need these

no, not to keep

but rather to enable my thoughts to return to dust and forgivenes

forgetfulness…

There is a line in your heart

a drawing upon your skin

comings and goings

longing and leaving

in your dreams.

There are mistakes in desire

and learning in regrets

amongst all

there is understanding in love

for loving you is knowing where you are

and loving you is letting you be you

and me be me

for meeting depth in your eyes

breathing love in your arms

showed me who I truly am

and how much of that unfolds in the infinity of the world.

one last gaze into your eyes...

Fagulha - por Ana Cristina Cesar

Abri curiosa

o céu.

assim afastando de leve as cortinas.

eu queria rir, chorar,

ou pelo menos sorrir

com a mesma leveza com que

os ares me beijavam.

Eu queria entrar,

coração ante coração,

inteiriça,

ou pelo menos mover-me um pouco,

com aquela parcimônia que caracterizava

as agitações me chamando.

Eu queria até mesmo

saber ver,

e num movimento redondo

como as ondas

que me circundavam invisíveis,

abraçar com as retinas

cada pedacinho de matéria viva.

Eu queria

(só)

perceber o invislumbrável

no levíssimo que sobrevoava.

Eu queria

apanhar uma braçada

do infinito em luz que a mim se misturava.

Eu queria captar o impercebido

nos momentos mínimos do espaço

nu e cheio.

Eu queria

ao menos manter descerradas as cortinas

na impossibilidade de tangê-las.

Eu não sabia

que virar pelo avesso

era uma experiência mortal.

a porta

Aquela porta abriu um mundo

porta que era muito mais do que uma porta

muito além de bege, laminada tábua de madeira...

A porta
não separava minha privacidade da tua

ela nos privava do mundo,

da cidade

da verdade.

A porta ali estava

inerte

calada

dividindo em dois
o silêncio estrondoso que vinha do outro lado

separando tuas mágoas mais profundas

de teu sofrimento incansavelmente negado.

Atrás da porta

uma estrela morreu

e a porta me deixou sem endereço

mas me ensinou:

moro no coração do mundo.

Atrás da porta dançavam

um segundo e um século inteiros

adentrando feito vento

teu triste perdido olhar

tua incredulidade

(medo de ser amado?)

A porta nos escancarou todos os nossos medos

nossos segredos mais mesquinhos

e todo desamor que persiste na dor que resiste.

A porta desde sempre soubera

quem éramos

quem seríamos

e me abriu por inteira

quando a abri.

A porta me virou pelo avesso

no avesso do avesso de minha pele

carne exposta

resposta para perguntas que nunca fizera.

E a força

- força que não é necessária para uma porta abrir,

minha não era.

A porta simplesmente abriu-se

tal flor que desabrocha derramando seu perfume sem pedir licença

inundando com seu aroma a tarde inteira

a vida inteira contida naquele abraço

(sim, o brilho do sol inundando teu quarto confundia-se com o perfume e o toque em meus cabelos, e aninhar-me fez-te sentir em casa e completamente grato).

A porta

simplesmente confirmou

que nenhum benefício se encontra em fugir da vida

que nenhuma garantia existe

onde feridas não sangram

e cama nenhuma

por mais cara, macia ou merecida

conforta a alma.

A porta

era o fiel do mundo.

I wear you and take off the days,

There is no history before your hands,

There is no history after your hands,

They call you the alternative,

I do not have language, between myself and my name there is a country,

And I want to incarnate the trees,

I bear witness that I Have covered my name with silence,

Near the sea...

Mahmoud Darwish: Thats her image and this is the lovers suicide. 

“[…] there is [rather] nudity and us, we who are in the very place of lighting; in other words, it is our gaze which, in opening itself upon the nudity of Olympia, illuminates her. […] we are responsible for the visibility and for the nudity of Olympia. […] we are – every viewer finds this – necessarily implicated in this nudity and we are at a certain extend responsible. You see how aesthetic transformation can, in a case such as this, provoke a moral scandal.” Michel Foucault in: Manet and the Object of Painting.