“se não existisse esse tipo de adversário seria preciso inventar ele, pra vida ter um toque de drama, um pouco de estrutura e sentido.”

Irvine Welsh, Pornô, 2002.


I used to make long speeches to you after you left. I used to talk to you all the time, even though I was alone. I walked around for months talking to you. Now I don’t know what to say. It was easier when I just imagined you. I even imagined you talking back to me. We’d have long conversations, the two of us. It was almost like you were there. I could hear you, I could see you, smell you. I could hear your voice. Sometimes your voice would wake me up. It would wake me up in the middle of the night, just like you were in the room with me. Then… it slowly faded. I couldn’t picture you anymore. I tried to talk out loud to you like I used to, but there was nothing there. I couldn’t hear you. Then… I just gave it up. Everything stopped. You just… disappeared. And now I’m working here. I hear your voice all the time. Every man has your voice.

I used to make long speeches to you after you left. I used to talk to you all the time, even though I was alone. I walked around for months talking to you. Now I don’t know what to say. It was easier when I just imagined you. I even imagined you talking back to me. We’d have long conversations, the two of us. It was almost like you were there. I could hear you, I could see you, smell you. I could hear your voice. Sometimes your voice would wake me up. It would wake me up in the middle of the night, just like you were in the room with me. Then… it slowly faded. I couldn’t picture you anymore. I tried to talk out loud to you like I used to, but there was nothing there. I couldn’t hear you. Then… I just gave it up. Everything stopped. You just… disappeared. And now I’m working here. I hear your voice all the time. Every man has your voice.

and i’ll send all my loving to you.

and i’ll send all my loving to you.

 
 

mas tudo bem.. o dia vai raiar pra gente se inventar de novo!

 
 

o coração só precisa de ar. e deixar.

“Todos os domingos antes do almoço eram o meu pai me empurrando com força para o balanço voar as minhas pernas cada vez mais alto, para longe do chão. O balanço era o voo controlado, a partida sempre contendo a volta, por isso o fascínio dos pais ensaiando despedidas a tarde inteira. As pedras pontiagudas correndo todas as velocidades e os meus joelhos prontos para serem sangrados assim que a queda deixasse de ser medo para ser. A iminência do salto e os gritos pedindo cada vez mais. A risada do meu pai. Os braços fortes empurrando as minhas costas, esperando a minha volta. Minhas mãos agarrando as correntes e as dobras dos meus dedos acumulando todas as lembranças que a ferrugem poderia conter.
Atravessei a praça e os balanços parados dentro da neblina eram todos os passados voltando devagar.”

Ismael Caneppele, Os Famosos e os Duendes da Morte, 2010.