Pensava há pouco, antes de dormir, em como seria a Verdade e em como ela chegava. Costumava pensar que ela era mulher, vestida de sol e cabelos ondulando ao vento, partindo as águas e as brumas no seu passeio descalço – mais anunciada que santidade cristã…

mas eu mal sabia que
se alguma verdade havia
ela era Górgona
feita de sinapse
fungo, fúria e fumaça

de fato é mulher e aterroriza
sem halo, mas mil serpentes de fumo
não se a vê chegar
pois é a própria bruma
ninguém a poderia anunciar
não é santidade alguma

mas a percebi
ainda a percebo e
almejo
arrebatar-me na potência
de seu olhar petrificante
de névoa enregelante

Anúncios

how beautiful

de tudo o que é Arte,

o que eu mais gosto é do soco no estômago

daquele acesso violento

da vontade de vomitar tudo o que eu acho que eu sou

e desaparecer

 

e como é especial quando Ela também vem me reconstruir

tudo na mesma entrega

toda ponto-e-vírgula,

virada e guinada e reencontro

 

faz quatro anos que aconteceu tudo isso a partir daqui:

 

 

a chegada

As verdades são coisas muito simples, e é exatamente por isso que chegam tão fundo. Se o demônio que Nietzsche invoca perguntasse, “você, pequeno grão de areia, viveria essa vida de novo, eternamente, todos os dias exatamente como foram antes?”, bastaria responder e toda a complexidade do mundo seria reduzida a uma ou outra sílaba. Talvez a maior virtude da arte e da filosofia, afinal, seja fazer as perguntas certas — e é exatamente isso o que A Chegada fez. Continuar lendo “a chegada”

augúrios

augúrios

o sol intermitente
nos troncos dos pinheiros filtrou-se
deitou-se
em faixas finas sobre a corrente
e até o emaranhado de sombra
do outro lado afinou

o rio valente
a correr
nunca no mesmo ponto, porém sempre
sem ser o mesmo jamais, mas perene
sob os feixes de sol
a fins de março
levou

a moça
que flutuva levemente
que a esticar os braços molemente
fitava o céu que lhe fitava
de volta
a mente

e descobria
o que o céu
um dia
sonhou

 

spotify:track:7A9sTkeUItNW9zGzjDqf2z

Artemis

Artemis

His right hand hovered over the handrail as he walked up the grey staircase to the rooftop. He pushed the door open to his right and discovered Anya to his left. She sat on the floor, her back to the wall. Her hands rested gently over her bended knees and a book lay open on her palms. She was frowning as her eyes moved rapidly, trying to unveil something hidden in the text.

“Not finished yet?” asked Adonis judgmentally. He did that quite often. “It’s been a long while you’ve been reading that one.”

“Tiago’s always keeping me from reading faster,” she replied in that half-absent, yet elegant way only girls were able to muster, acting disarmingly uninterested whenever they wanted to. It was quite endearing, he had to admit. Adonis chose to hide any awkward reaction to the mentioning of Tiago by purposefully tucking his hands into the pockets of his loose jeans and looking out to the clear night sky.

He couldn’t manage to just effortlessly act cool, though. Anya looked at him out of the corner of her eye and laughed inside.

Men are not gracious, even when they are.

“You should teach yourself to focus on what matters,” he said; his eyes on the sky.

“Like you?”

“I do focus.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He turned his head to her—she was still gazing at the book—and then back to the sky. The moon was overly large. A supermoon, they said.

A year past, he had watched the same phenomenon in very similar, albeit unique circumstances. At that time, Tiago was still lying quietly in the bed as Adonis approached the window and crept naked onto the sill with a book in his hand. The light cast from the moon was just enough to see by. Just like Anya did now, he had looked for something in the book. He saw past the ordinary script on the yellowed pages. Past the hardcover; through its spine. Back then he looked out into the sky the same way he did now. Back then he had found something within the core of the book half-lit by the moon.

At the present moment, within her own book—or through it—Anya was about to see something. At least it seemed. Adonis chose to ignore it a year ago. Now he couldn’t—she was right there to keep both his feet on the ground.

Would she choose to ignore it too?

“Can’t you just sit down?” she asked firmly. A half-demand it was, actually.

Adonis sat down beside her, wishing on the moon she wouldn’t ask him the questions he dared not answer yet. This was the first time in ages they found themselves alone. He had no escape. He knew it was only a matter of time until the puzzle the past few years were made sense to her; until it finally fell into place; until she aimed at him a question he couldn’t dodge. She finally took her eyes off of the book and gave him that look.

At her gaze, he blushed.

“Do you miss him?”

Now, flushed.

“So much I should’ve let him kill me,” he thought. The words came out different though.

“Just as much as you do.”

spotify:track:75U0bUXRnMUP8Hfw2FveTw

rarear

O obelisco se destacava na paisagem, erguendo-se escuro e imponente a apontar para o céu claro. Parecia que até ele queria escapar, crescer pra muito além da cidade cinzenta que se estendia aos seus pés. À medida que se erguia, afinava. Ficavam tão próximo do chão suas bases monolíticas, tão densas e fortes eram. Ora, necessitava de um lugar para apoiar-se, afinal.

Recostado à base do monumento encontrava-se aquele Adônis. Olhava também para o alto. Sentado no chão, as pernas cruzadas, os braços apoiados molemente sobre as coxas. Parecia que meditava, que buscava de olhos bem abertos alguma revelação no azul claro do céu. Não veio nada. Sentia só o obelisco gelar nas suas costas.

Bem poderia fugir dali; esticar-se em direção ao infinito, rareando, rareando tanto que não sobraria nada na ponta.