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)