2012

To the longest year of my life: thank you. And thank you.

Quotes #3

"Love is magic, but not just any magic. Love is the most powerful magic of all: it creates happiness." Once Upon A Time, s01e18

Short Love Stories #5: The Most Beautiful Poem In The World

"I wrote you the most beautiful poem in the world."
"Really? What's the title?"
"Juliet."
"Okay, how does it go?"
"Well, it goes like this." I cough. "Juliet."
"That's my name."
"I know."
"Is that it?"
"Yep."

One

I fear, my Love. I fear for I am human, I am scared of stopping.
I fear, my Love, but I have you. And I have you because I have hope. I have hope of one day losing myself in you and vanishing.
To vanish. In peace, undefeated. Victorious, redeemed. Innocent, strong.
I shall be strong, my Love. I shall be as big as the world, tiptoeing to touch your face.
I shall be the tallest of the giants, and so shall you. I shall be as tall as you, and you shall be as tall as me. We shall be the same and eternal.
We shall be One.

Shamans, Death and Inconstancy

Lately life's got me thinking about death. I have read many articles, many books, many teachings and many stories on the subject. Good, bad, peaceful. Perspectives, I've seen them all. I read them all, and I applied not one. Not one. Until now.

Death feels so far away nowadays in this eternal, medical, healthy reality. It seems and we feel like we are invincible, indestructible. Immortal. And therefore we forget to live the life that's been given to us. We know we don't have time, but not for the right things. God damn it, I won't make it in time to watch TV. We know we might just have a stroke or a heart attack or get hit by a car or fall on our heads or get struck by a lightning, we just choose not to give a fuck. We are immortal.

Sorcerers live with much more intensity than normal people because they constantly know that they are going to die. Shamans were considered wise and magical for a reason, among others: they payed attention to things in life you and I learned to ignore so religiously that we can't even see anymore. The magick that we lost. The Transcendant in watching a flower blossom, a tree sparkle. What? You've never seen a tree sparkle?

I know that this might be my last word. This. Or this. My last breath. The last smell I'll ever breathe in. The last color I'll see, the last hand I will hold. The last time I will kiss these lips. That is why I breathe in deeper, I admire longer, I feel more keenly. That's why I look deep down into your eyes, to see if you see it too. Because you should. You should know that you have not said everything you want to say, that you have not done all that you want to do. You are not ready. But you might go nonetheless. Haven't you ever taken five minutes off your constant unimportant egoistic thoughts to think about why you are wasting your time like this? Why you are not doing the things you love, right here, right now, instead of deferring whatever it is that you have to do?

Why can't you see the absurd beauty that is scattered all over your face? Why don't you stop succumbing and put Death into your eyes, your ears, your nose, your mouth, your skin, your mind? Always do things for the last time, even if it doesn't come to be for the next thousand times. Live for the last time. Love for the last time. And you will Love intensely. And you will cry for watching a stone exist. And you will see perfection in the tiny little invisible air dust. And you will see yourself. And you will feel yourself.

And when that moment comes, the one that you will be prepared to, you will take it by the hand, smile, and say "yes, my Love, it is time."

Short Love Stories #4: The Hug

She held him as tightly as she could.
"I miss you."
"I'm right here," he replied, hugging back.
Her salty lips slid back.
"I know."

Viagem / Trip

Português original:

"Viagem"

"Pensei que a vida fosse uma viagem. Arrumei minha mala de couro e corri para pegar o trem. Eu sabia bem onde estavam os trilhos. Entrei no magnífico trem, moderno e seguro. A paisagem me encantava. Era perfeito saber que havia um "lá fora", desconhecido e íngreme, mas que ficava tão romântico e encantador através da janela-moldura do trem. Passei por penhascos gigantescos, enxerguei imensas florestas. Volta e meia surgia, ao longe, um agrupamento de luzes, indicando alguma civilização nas proximidades. Fiquei imaginando os contrastes: cidade e natureza, luz e sombra, estradas e encruzilhadas. Sentada no banco macio, acompanhei os diferentes quadros que desfilavam através das esquadrias da janela. Perdida em meus devaneios, caí em mim quando a voz do cobrador perguntava sobre meu tíquete. Tíquete? Que tíquete? Precisava? Sim, precisava. E eu não tinha. Desci na próxima e minúscula estação. Acompanhei o trem com os olhos, até o último vagão sumir na escuridão. Fiquei ali, parada, pasmada... Teria que cruzar os trilhos, quase imperceptíveis naquela região, abafados pelo mato rasteiro e teimoso que competia com os ferros. Nada mais estava enquadrado. Não podia mais seguir os trilhos. Tomei minha mala de couro e respirei. Comecei a andar. Desandei a viver."

English translation:

"Trip"

"I thought life was a trip. I packed my leather suitcase and ran for the train. I knew well where the tracks were. I got into the magnificent train, modern and secure. The landscape enchanted me. It was perfect to know that there was an "out there", unknown and steep, yet so romantic and charming through the train's window frame. I passed by gigantic cliffs, saw immense forests. Here and there came up, far out, a group of lights, indicating some civilization nearby. I imagined the contrasts: city and nature, light and shadow, roads and crossroads. Sitting on the soft seat, I followed the different paintings that paraded through the windowpane. Lost in my daydreams, I woke to the conductor's voice as he asked for my ticket. Ticket? What ticket? Did I need a ticket? Yes, I did. And I didn't have one. I got off at the next and minuscule station. I followed the train with my eyes, until the last wagon fade in the darkness. I stood there, still, stunned... I would have to cross the rails, almost imperceptible in that region, muffled by the creeping and stubborn bushes that competed with the iron. Nothing else was framed. I couldn't follow the tracks anymore. I took my leather suitcase and breathed. I started walking. I started living."


(Text by Gisela Cardoso)

To Die and to Become

Brasil.
The smells, the food, the people, the smiles. I just came back from an exchange year in Sweden (2011-2012). It has been easier than I thought to adapt to my culture, even after all the changes I suffered these last months. It feels as if I have been away for years, and yet never left. I suppose others know the feeling.

It was an amazing experience. The damaging and healing it does to one's soul is just overwhelming. You die, are reborn, die again and are reborn again. In fact, you do that so many times you forget who you were in the first place. And that's good! Right?

Well, yes. When you are taken (even if by choice) away from all you know, all the confort you have ever had, the changes are a little brutal. In the beginning it just feels like an amazing and interesting world (which it is), but then you have to start adapting yourself to it. And not everyone likes to do that, do they? It is not that simple. Not that easy. You undergo an initiation of some sort, most of the times unspoken. It is not a sea of roses to force yourself to change, and finally not be told when to. That is a major step in adulthood - being able to tell yourself when change is needed.

Yes, it is good to change. It hurts, both for leaving your old self behind and for embracing the new one knowing it too will fade away. Knowing that you aren't as predictable and knowable as you thought you were. But then again, who are you, anyway? I am not allowed to tell you the whole story, but I can say this much: you are not. You never were anything. You are not because in no point of the space-time illusion you weren't changing. Therefore, embracing the fact that you are always in motion, we can agree that you are not, but are becoming. You were never yourself because there is no self to be. You are the action of trying to be who you think yourself to be.

That being said, note that you are always dying. And being born, why not. You have always been, and you will always be. You will always become, wanting it or not. Being aware of it or not. Funny enough, this being as simple as it is, you only know it after being through so many (little and/or big) katharsis you can't even count anymore. And what is becoming other than learning? Learning how to outgrow every little thing that might bind your becoming being to your dying one. Learning how you have got nothing to lose, and yet cry when it is gone. Learning to remember, and not get stuck. Learning to care. To Love.

Becoming is the process of Loving. One always walks towards the most lovable thing he or she knows, and that is no surprise. The idea of the perfect job, the loving family, the honorable respect. The prideful pride. Oneself. God, whatnot.

I am still trying to find out who the hell I am becoming. I learned much (maybe too much) in this short period of time. I learned how to teach myself, and that is of no price. I met amazing people, I dived in headfirst, I laughed, I loved. I wished I could be in two places at the same time. Then I realized everything has its time, for we must grow. We must go on, to become. We must Love with all the intensity in the world and beyond, because it will all fade away. And to honor the partings of the living and the dead, we must remember what we Love.

And I remember everything.

The Ephemeral

”Why is it so unfair?”

”What is?”

”Death.”

”Why do you think death is unfair?”

”It hurts.”

”Everyone must hurt sometime, you know that.”

”But why? Can’t we just be happy?”

She stroke his hair.

”Can’t we?”

He fell silent.

”Tell me, John, do you regret?”

”Regret what?”

”Anything.”

”Well, I suppose. If I could go back in time, I would definitely not steal that jar of cookies when I was a kid.” He chuckled. ”One thing I would never regret is having met you.”

She kissed him lightly upon his lips.

”I don’t regret,” she started. ”There is no time. Death is not unfair. Death doesn’t have to hurt. Death is Change. It is Death who reminds you that everything you make, say and do is important. Every little thing is important for it is always the last. All you do right now is the last thing you will do in this moment. In this second. Then it’s gone. It’s dead, and it can’t come back. And you will miss it. That’s why it is so special to start with.”

He wrapped her dark brown hair around his fingers.

”Is that why I love you so much?”

She looked at him, puzzled.

”Because you are going to disappear, and I’m not going to be able to disappear with you?”

She smiled, burying her head in his chest.

”No, that’s why I love you.”

The Spring

It is getting warm again. Not only the weather, but everything, everyone. The spring is quite a big thing here up North, since they have long winter periods. They have parties and fests to rejoice its coming. Songs, costumes, foods.

"I like the spring because it makes me happy."

I used to say I wasn't a warm-weather kind of person. I've had too much of it. I liked the breeze, the cold. I felt weird, because everyone else liked summer. Was I that strange?

It took me one hell of a winter to understand that they were never talking about the temperature. 

It was so simple, so raw, so delicate. So fragile and unconscious, yet so strong and present. Maybe you are a cold-weather person like I was. That will change. It's not that I stopped liking coats and sweaters for sweat, don't get me wrong. No matter how many springs and summers come, they will always be preceded by a winter. The worse the winter, the better the spring. In the end of your winter, there will be days of warmth and days of cold. There will be laughter and there will be shivering. Perhaps you will even get a little tanned. Mark that day of warmth so you won't forget.

I didn't use to go out whenever I saw the Sun just because it was there. You can't miss a thing you have in your consciousness and on your skin most of the time. Take it off your mind and you will dislike it; take it off your skin and you will love it.

I had it taken off my skin. I started loving it. From the bottom of my heart, I love the Sun. It is clear that I'm not talking about the temperature. It is simple, raw, delicate. Fragile and yet strong. Unconscious and yet present.

I love to smile.

Short Love Stories #3: The Bench

He sat on the empty bench. We used to sit here, you and I. He looks down to the palm of his hand. The lines of his skin, now tired and dry. The lines she used do draw. For some reason, the tears always followed the paths she carved with the light touch of her fingers. He smiled. You said you'd always be here. And so did I.
So he was always there, on that bench. Every sunset. And so was she. Always.

Danny and Annie

Joy and Sorrow (The Prophet)

“Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.

And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.

And how else can it be?

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?

And is not the lute that soothes your spirit the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.

When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and other say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’

But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.”

The Prophet; GIBRAN, Kahlil

(And, just for the record, I strongly recommend the Bhagavad Gîtâ, a sacred Hindu scripture, part of the Mahabharata.)

Port Coton and Art's Last Persona

As I was conversing with a friend yesterday with some live acoustic music across the Atlantic Ocean, he sent me a link with this video:

No need to say I fell in love. Not only I adore the language, but the music style and her voice. Zaz has only one released album (10 May, 2010) so far, and the singles are pretty astonishing (my favorite is Port Coton).
I am deeply fond of artists that succeed in putting themselves inside the art they make. It is what keep the art alive, for what we see is nothing but a corpse waiting to be animated with feelings, thoughts and energy. Like us. We show forms that we inhabit and shape with our own self. In the make of art, we pick up the pieces and use our techniques and emotions and wills and intentions as glue. Without that, pieces would be pieces until someone else do what we failed to.
We, without art, are naught but alone and glued to glue, imprisoned by weightlessness.
Art, without us, is naught but chaotic and lost, bound to be forgotten.
Art is thus naught but what we love and need and rely on the most: ourselves.

Emptiness, Silence and Infinity

There is indeed something disconcerting about emptiness, let's agree. Something awesome, hideous, and yet beautiful. I was always fond of the paradox that emptinesses are full.

I don't know where I heard this when I was a kid, or if I came up with it myself. I just remember snapping into the realization that maybe my silence was worth a lot more than most of the words I was saying (and it was true). Not that I didn't have anything to say; much more like the other way around. Words sometimes faltered and failed to explain whatever it was I needed to express, so I just kept quiet instead.

Not everyone understands, though. Some get very mad, some smile in empathy. It is hard to understand emptiness. It is hard to read a blank piece of paper. It is even harder to write a blank piece of paper. The gaps between the words. The pauses. What words show means a lot, yet what is understated worths much, much more.

Nothingness brings imagination. Imagination brings oneself to the mind's eye. Imagination imprints oneself into something or someone. A meaningless movement or a silent glance. The lack of one holds all the others. It can be whatever we want it to be. The missing last love confession, the unplayed notes. The words we want to hear, or the meaning-change comma.

Now, don't be extreme and do a vow of silence, but consider. Silence doesn't mean anything if you don't intend it to. Silence and emptiness are full. They are infinite. If you create infinity.


"Silence is so freaking loud"
— Sarah Dessen, Just Listen


"God is silent. Now if only man would shut up."
— Woddy Allen


"The quieter you become, the more you can hear."
— Baba Ram Das

And I'll leave you with one of my favorites songs of all time.

John Cage: 4'33"

Quotes #2

"The love we give away is the only love we keep."
Elbert Hubbard

Happy Stupid Games

"Look at all those stupid kids... Running around, kicking a ball, playing dumb games, screaming at each other... Sometimes I wonder if they have anything more to their lives." As depreciating as it may have sounded, I don't regret thinking or saying that. Maybe I have far too much stuff going on, too much to live at the same time.

"I guess that if they are happy, it doesn't really matter." Her voice was soft and somewhat warm. Just as the breeze passing through my hair. She looked so alive gazing at the sky that I even felt bad with standing by her side with such a morbid expression.

"Is everything okay?" She whispered, stroking my hair. Evidently I got lost in my train of thoughts, it was starting to happen more and more and I'm not sure if I like it or not.

"I'm fine, I just got lost in my mind." Before I even finished speaking, she grabbed my hand and darted around the park. We spent the whole day running, laughing and playing those so called stupid games.

I feel alive.

Vinícius Dalpiccol (Art as a whole)

Coughs and Nearly Missed Notes

The lights go off. The stage is visible only because of the little lamps illuminating the sheets. The arches are raised. Breaths are held and muscles are tense. The first chord resounds. Involuntary sighs are hidden by the crescendo of the first act.

I’m sitting on the front row, right in the middle. I hear the amazed silence behind me changing colors every new theme. A violinist looks at me. I look back. He smiles and turns to the sheets again. I’m struck by a wave of empathy.

All these lives, behind and in front of me, – all of them – led to this one moment. Sighing and daydreaming to the same music. Making the same music. This one moment is changing all of us. Even the smallest detail makes a difference: a wrong note or maybe someone coughing in the audience. I feel connected, and I know they feel it too. They know that we are also creating the music they are playing, for a sound unheard is no different than silence.

I smile. These tiny moments of understanding always make me cry. A cellist sees me crying and smiling, wondering if I’m the only one feeling that. He smiles and almost misses a note. Quickly, he focuses again and regains the tempo. Did anyone notice that? Is anyone thinking about it? Back there, yes, you. Did you see him smile? I think he understands it too. He knows it. He knows that you saw him, even though you may not have realized. I think he knows that more of us smiled when he did. And we both know that it changed it all.

Someone coughs. Disapproval? Well, some people don’t like to be changed. Some people don’t think about what they experience and feel. I like to change. I don’t know about you; but I find that nearly missed note much more beautiful than a technical perfection. I find it beautiful when we smile. 

John, Tim and Everyone Else

"We are but dream figures inside someone else's dream."

We pass by hundreds of people every day. Hundreds of people pass us by every day. People that we don't know, people that don't exist. Some make an abrupt gesture or give us a strange look, marking their now many times stillborn existence. We don't know them, yet they have made an impression on us, creating thoughts inside our heads. That's the door. Catching our attention is how they knock and open it before you ask "who is this?".

If you didn't know yet, you do it too. You change people's lives, wanting it or not. But what if you stopped that person that keep glancing at you with the corner of the eye, look straight into them and say "Hello. Who are you?". That question means a lot. It shows a lot. It lets you know straight away what that person stands for, which beliefs he/she has.

Let me tell you a short story that never really happened.

Once upon a normal day, a normal guy got out of bed. Just like every morning, he ate breakfast, dressed up, brushed his teeth and went to the bus stop. It was still a little dark and the wind was cold. He was rubbing his gloves to not shiver when someone bumped on him. He watched his suitcase scatter on the sidewalk, spitting his papers like if they tasted bad. "Oh God, I'm such a disaster. I'm so, so sorry, Tim", she said, kneeling to help him gather his papers. "It's okay, it happens... but I'm not Tim, you must be mistaken". "Oh, isn't it? I'm sorry, I just guessed by the color of your suitcase. Who are you again?". "John". "Oh, hello John, I'm John". She stretched out her hand. "What?". She pouted. "Tim, that's not how you greet someone!". His eyes were filled with confusion. What the hell? "My name is John, I said". "Well, so did I, Tim". "My name is not Tim!". She looked into his eyes, handing him the last papers. "And who told you that?". She got on the bus. "Wait!", he said. "Yes, Tim?". "Who are you?". She shrugged. "I'm Tim. Pleasure to meet you, John". He jumped in and the bus left.

Okay, come back now. Let's analise here. The meaning with that was to show a situation where two unknown persons meet and change each other's lives. Interrupting the other's chain of thoughts, conclusions and so on. Imprinting an image of oneself. I confess I went a little off there, but I meant to bring the topic of discussion: something that would change everything. 

Maybe his name is Tim. Maybe her name is John. Maybe they are called Brock and Misty. They don't know. There is no way of knowing the other but speaking. Showing. Hearing. People tend to either hear or speak; few do both. And if we all did...

Open up! Go up to someone you don't know, speak and hear what they have to say. Ask them if they are called Peter or maybe Sarah. Go up to someone you think you know and hear what they have to say. Hand them the tools for a second and let them sculpt a little bit of their own image. You'll be surprised.

Let someone change your future, just in that instant. Notice them. Let them into your mind for a second and maybe find out that they are just like you. That you two are beautiful and you can learn so much from each other. Let me see you, so you can see me. Let me know your name. You, the one I look at all the time, but have never seen.

Hello John, I'm Tim. Who are you again?

Short Love Stories #2: The Jacket

"It's cold."
"Here, take my jacket." He took off his jacket and handed it to her.
She put it on.
"It's still cold."
"Here, take my hand."

To Love Forever

“Who dares to love forever when love must die?”

This is a verse from the song “Who Wants To Live Forever”, by Queen. I came upon this song when a friend of mine asked me to sing the “We Will Rock You” musical’s version of it with her. I must say I was flattered. When I was listening to it, this one verse caught my attention (curiously enough, it is the apex of the song, in my opinion).

Lyrics, poems, verses, words. People stumble upon them all the time, every day. Most of them bump into their meaning, apologize, and move along. I’ve always been a word-metaphor-sticky kind of person. Whenever I hear a good phrase, it loops inside my head for days. And each day I learn something new from it. I wonder.

“Who dares to love forever”, this part is tricky already. There is a big relevance in explaining the difference between “love” and “passion” here. Folks tend to mix these two, particularly young ones. Passion is inconstant. It’s a feeling. It’s the desire for something or someone. It’s the urge of taking someone by the hand and saying to him or her “I love you” (even though that’s not necessarily love), or maybe just sending a love-letter or even writing a song, why not. Love is a state of consciousness. Love is the will of well being of something (we might consider the state of this something, in this case) or someone. The hope for one’s happiness and safety. That being said, I believe that Love, being an altruistic will, is eternal. Or at least it can be. Whatever belief you might have, let’s agree that a lifetime-lasting love doesn’t die with the person. Its memory is still love, and it will always be. As long as it makes the other happy (or had that intention), if it’s not forgotten, it’s immortal. Passion, on the other hand, being the cadence of feelings that it is, comes and goes. It’s mutant, sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s damaging.

There are also several different kinds of love, when I would nominate only one passion. There are yes indeed many feelings in there, but they all consist in one same thing.

“Who dares to love forever when love must die?”

I said that love is eternal. No, I’m not walking over myself here. I interpret the verse as referring to the dying part of all that is eternal. A moment can pass, a lover can pass, but the memories they make will always live on. A lover’s body might die, but his/hers memory lives on. Wherever they are now, heaven, nature, void; you still hope for their happiness, however it may come. It hurts. It hurts when a love dies. It hurts because even though it’s dead, it’s not dead. It’s not dead because a love cannot die. It dies because it’s not present, but the will lives on. And with will there is hope. And with hope there is feeling. Love, in its sublimity, is felt through hope.

There are not many people brave enough to love. Tons of them have passion, of that I’m sure. But passion usually goes as fast as it comes. Some might be dramatic; some might extend the pain for liking it (artists use that feeling a lot). It hurts, but it goes away. After a while, it becomes an “oh well, what can be done” kind of feeling. Love requires courage; you can’t be scared of hurting. When love is true, in the moment it’s at reach, tangible, it is sublime. The moments when everything falls into place. When you understand. The moments that are longed for and missed when they come to an end. The ones that play over and over again on your mind. The ones that break the nonchalance of one’s life. Not many are ready for that. Being indifferent is easy, is confortable. Love hurts, love heals. It comes and goes; yet it’s always there. That is the critical part of it. Who dares to be bound to something that will undoubtedly hurt? We could get into happiness here and put it into the concept of being special for its ephemerality. It is also in the background of everything, parting from the point that every human being’s goal is to be happy. Why do people get sad, then? Well, there would be no happiness if there were no sadness, would it? There is happiness when one parts from the point of sadness and builds up on it. When one departs from sadness through knowledge and builds its path up to enlightenment. Love hurts so it can heal. And the healing process of love brings happiness along. Just like the inconstancy of happiness, so is the inconstancy of love. It must die so it can be reborn stronger. It is always reborn. But are you strong enough to endure every time it dies?

The Human Empathy Machine

I’ve been doing some thinking lately. I very often consider a parallel world where you can know everything about a person from the moment your eyes meet. Like with a machine or something. I wonder if that would be as good as it sounds. OK, maybe it would help a lot to choose who is worth it or not, but it would also take the fun out of it. Let’s be honest here: there is nothing better in a relationship than learning something new about one another. But think! Knowing all that person’s tastes, loves, fears. Knowing if you could protect them or not. Give them something or not. If they have the same urge to learn as you do. If their life is worth living and learning from.

So what if I knew you? Or even if you knew me. Maybe we are the same, you and I. Maybe you can save me and I can protect you. Maybe we’ll never know and I’ll never get to say that I love you, even though I already do. I love you. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t know what you think; I don’t know your fears. I can’t read you; I can’t see your soul. I can’t see who you want to be. But I can see who you are and, God damn, you’re beautiful.

The Wish

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“How would you describe ‘distance’?”

“The word?”

“Yes, the concept.”

“I would say it is space.”

“Between?”

“Between whatever. There can even be space between spaces.”

“And why does it hurt so much?”

“Because you fill it with emptiness. It hurts because emptiness is full of possibilities, and either they are not at reach or you’re not stretching enough.”

“And how can I do that?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yea, go for it.”

“How would you describe ‘distance’?”

“The concept?”

“No, the feeling.”

“It’s…” Sigh. “It’s the memory of something that never happened. A daydream. It’s faces, voices, smells, names. Things that are not there. But still they hurt. There are good distances. Rebirth, growth. There are bad distances – the good memories. And there is the distance between possibilities. The distance between what you are doing and what you could be doing. The distance between you and yourself. The one that lies, that slips through your fingertips. The one that makes you cry and hell, why not, smile. The one between what you say and what I wish you would. The one between me and you.”

“That is called time.”

“And of that we don’t have that much, do we?”

“As much as we want.”

For those who cry (and those who don't)

Let's change the course of this for a moment. In the background of this blog, behind every post, there is something I haven't mentioned yet. Not because I forgot, nor is it less important. It is, in fact, what brings the words out of my fingers. Music.

My soul has been a musician's since - and probably even before - I could be called a human being. I grew up in a home full of music, movement, art. I started playing the piano when I was around 11 and trying singing some years before that. I, at the moment, study at a music school here in Sweden.

Having said that, I confess that I'm not much of a writer without music. I'm not much of anything. Music triggers the feelings consciousness fails to reach. Right now I'm listening to Yiruma, my favorite pianist, album "First Love" from 2001 (if you don't feel like listening to the whole thing, try the song "When The Love Falls"). He's my soundtrack for writings such as this blog.

Music, on my point of view, is the safest and quickest way into one's core. You feel emotions and sensations you never knew existed. The urge to cry without a reason. I've heard people say they don't cry to music, even if they love it. Fear not - you are not soulless. The feeling of love and understanding of God-knows-what that a song might bring doesn't have to be external. But if you say to me you never felt anything at all with music of any kind, I must stop you right there. Calm down for a minute or two. Close your eyes and think about something and/or someone you love. Let a classic/instrumental song float gently throughout the room around you. Don't pay attention to it, just leave it be. Let it become the air around you. Take a deep breath. Feel it run through your lungs, veins, cells. Allow it to fill you, top to bottom. Allow yourself to be music. Now let it fill your mind, your memories, your emotions. Let it make you smile. Smile to yourself. There's so much (so much!) of you hidden in there. Hold its tail and see where it takes you. Don't try to figure it out, just wander with it. Go within the depths of your mind, or just take a walk on the street. Take your time, there's no need to rush. In that moment, that one single moment, feel the awe of love. The love you are holding by the tail. The Music.

And for those who cry, I invite you to do the same. Maybe our musics meet somewhere along their way. Hopefully, they will. I'd love to know you better.

Quotes #1

"Initially there is always the choice of being alone. Later on it becomes not a choice anymore. When did it stop being a choice? What is it in me that has stopped choosing you, that has moved in you instead so that I must be with you so that I can be with myself?"

Jag behöver dig mer än jag älskar dig och jag älskar dig så himla mycket; Gunnar Ardelius (Page 73)

Short love stories #1: Winter Sunset

“What are you thinking about?”

“I’ve been wondering for a while now if it is that what you see changes what you feel or if it’s the other way around. I’ve come to the conclusion that they both change at the same time, so one might just never know. What about you?”

“I was thinking that your eyes look greener against the winter sunset”. 

The Tip

Someone once asked me what I thought about life. I grinned.

"No one asks that anymore," I said.

"Is it too late to start again?" He smiled back.

"Never is." I looked outside the window. "I find fascinating how, in this spring-winter, the snow not only accepts the sunlight - the same one that will melt it and make it disappear -, but it shines in esplendor and beauty. The same force bringing happiness and sorrow, death and rebirth.

"I dare to say that I believe that a snowflake lives more than most of the people. Life is also about rebirth, and there is no rebirth without death. One must not be scared of it, but embrace it. There comes a time when everything ends, and that makes it worthwhile. Tears don't have to fall anywhere but on smiling lips. Acceptance, joy, they are parts of one same feeling. Beauty comes from the inconstancy of things, although it's not seen until it's eternal. People tend to forget that - I do it too. Nevertheless, it is when you forget it that life finds a way to remind you of it."

His eyes were somewhere else. People passed by on the sidewalk. The coffees were getting colder, but none of us seemed to notice.

"People. Always in a hurry... I wonder how many of those minds are discussing with themselves. Discovering. Listening, speaking. I wonder how many of them feel the Sun on their skin, and not only its warmth. And for the ones who do, I wish they never let the feeling slip away. I wish the brightness never left their eyes. The brightness of the tears of glimpses of understanding, of feeling it. Feeling life.

"We come and go," he continued, "but if we don't cherish our stay and make a life instead of a living, we will never have been here at all. That's what bugs me: mortality. Someone misunderstood the concept of immortality along the way - it's not about the flesh. It's not about our bodies. Immortality is what lives on, despite oneself being present or not. Like the feeling of life. The feeling of consciousness, of plenitude."

"So you think that the feeling of life is immortal?"

"And therefore life as a concept as well. I do not distinguish 'life' from 'the feeling of life'. A lifetime lived without the feeling of life is no life at all. It never dies, even thought it's constantly reborn. I'm not saying that nothing ever dies, no. Things die, thoughts die. They die and cannot be restored. Life is forgotten, but never dies. Forgotten feelings can be remembered. If only I could help them to..."

The waitress came and asked if we wanted something else. "No, thank you," we said, and she left without further delays.

"I wish I knew her name," I said. He laughed.

"How do you know she knows it?" And drank a sip of his coffee.

"That's why I want to ask."

Silence fell. The cold coffees were now half-full.

"But it's beautiful, isn't it?" I said.

"What is?"

"Life."

"Oh, yes. It most definitely is."

We finished our coffees and, smiling, left two tears on the table as the tip.

Smile

The air was silent. As silent as breathing can sound. Her eyes walked up from the hands to meet his. “They are smiling”, she thought. She had never understood how eyes could smile. The concept seemed always too out of reach, intangible. So were those lips. She remembered every single time she tried to get his attention. How she thought it was all in vain. How she gave up, but not really. She accepted. Yes, accepted, that’s the word. She had accepted that those eyes would never smile for her. His hand held hers. He was still looking deep, and yet softly, into her eyes. He knew what he had to do, but it felt like his whole body had shut down, waiting for her to smile. Immobile. He remembered watching her with the corner of his eye. Sighing and laughing not to cry. Remembered all the kisses he never gave her. Her lips were half-opened. A smile passed by his. They were alone, in silence. Music played, thoughts lingered, but nothing seemed to want to disturb that one single moment. Their minds were blank, yet full. He recognized the song. “Ah, this song”, she thought. Her eyes smiled. He leaned, switching between her eyes and her lips so it wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. She lifted her chin. The lips touched, slowly, silently. She felt the tears bursting up to her eyes. He held the back of her neck, never wanting to let her go. The music got louder. “Ah, this song”, he thought.

The Egg

As I turned on my computer this morning to check my e-mail, I saw a message from a friend sharing the following text. It's (obviously) not from my authory, hence I emphasize all the credits to the author, Andy Weir.

I'm not a religious person, although I am a philosopher. Lots of people make mistakes when comparing them, topic that I might enter in some other post, some other time. This text gave me a brand new perspective of life and a reason to smile for the day. Who's to say what's true; therefore I advise you to interpretate it in as many different ways as you can. It's a little long, but well worth it.

The Egg,
by Andi Weir

You were on your way home when you died.

It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me.

And that’s when you met me.

“What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?”

“You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words.

“There was a… a truck and it was skidding…”

“Yup,” I said.

“I… I died?”

“Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said.

You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?”

“More or less,” I said.

“Are you god?” You asked.

“Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.”

“My kids… my wife,” you said.

“What about them?”

“Will they be all right?”

“That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.”

You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.”

“Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?”

“Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.”

“Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,”

“All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.”

You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?”

“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.”

“So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.”

“Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.”

I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had.

“You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.”

“How many times have I been reincarnated, then?”

“Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.”

“Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?”

“Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.”

“Where you come from?” You said.

“Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.”

“Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.”

“So what’s the point of it all?”

“Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?”

“Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted.

I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.”

“You mean mankind? You want us to mature?”

“No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.”

“Just me? What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.”

You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…”

“All you. Different incarnations of you.”

“Wait. I’m everyone!?”

“Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back.

“I’m every human being who ever lived?”

“Or who will ever live, yes.”

“I’m Abraham Lincoln?”

“And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added.

“I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled.

“And you’re the millions he killed.”

“I’m Jesus?”

“And you’re everyone who followed him.”

You fell silent.

“Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.”

You thought for a long time.

“Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?”

“Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.”

“Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?”

“No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.”

“So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…”

“An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.”

And I sent you on your way.