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.