language again

i thought that all was well, memory having failed me, and that you were forgotten. the two of you. my muse and my love, forgotten, i thought you were. wrong. again wrong. are you and i like long lost lovers reunited by a force that neither comprehends? have i chosen you, or was it you making the choice? i was not even sixteen when after first dreams and intimacies you were taken away from me. i did not fight, i did not know how to fight then. i felt the pulse of the next one, and made it mine, it became mine, it is mine now. you, these days i barely recognize you. you and the other, both are close and dear to me, you are both mine. how could i possibly think that i had forgotten? ó gente da minha terra, agora é que eu percebi, esta tristeza que trago, foi de vòs que recebi... powered by performancing firefox

off the grid

yesterday i checked out, logged off the internet and the gsm grid and went off for a run. my run turned into a leisurely walk along the river with a few spurts of a sprint. it was a very grey and cloudy day, it invited contemplation. the dull lighting made me more aware of nature's subtle beauty as i looked at the slow flowing river, the trees, and the bridges. life is short, they say. what a fallacy! there are moments that seem eternal and forever engrave themselves into memories. in the solitude of my walk yesterday, you were with me. i wondered what it is that inspires me, and i felt a certain tiredness of this human affliction that keeps humans prisoners of their minds. why would i need inspiration? why would i need you? i recall about one year ago having one of those moments of desperation and frustration, and thinking that if i am a writer, i might as well act like one. strange, i seldom act like one. it is often as though i was afraid of the very power of these little an insignificant words that flow one character after another onto the screen or onto the page. then on wednesday i found myself acting like a writer. it is a matter of survival, but frankly i have no other means to earn a living than as a writer, and i do not always have the luxury on the choice of topics or genre that i am to write about. but what is choice really? while in my run turned contemplative walk yesterday i descended to the river bed looking for a water polished stone to add to the stone garden. i wanted something to remember that day, if ever i would forget, then the stone would remember. the river is a good metre lower than usual, and certainly far from jumping the banks and flooding. it is an eerie feeling to walk on the stone lined river bed and look for that special stone. the one, the magic one, the perfect one. it made me think of how we chose lovers from an overbounding field of indistinguishable and yet unique beings, we want one special one. shall it have a red hue, or will it have white spots, or will it be a particularly flat one? what will strike our fancy? then after walking about for a while and not being able to decide on the special stone, i bent down and reached for the next one. it will do, it is the right one, i have made it the right one. there is nothing special about that stone, and today it is another special stone in my garden that lays just a few steps away from another very special stone that i picked on the shores of scotland. then i thought of you, there is nothing special about you. yet i have chosen to make you special, and to harbour you in the stone garden of my affection. this is the nature of my love, it is impersonal. i love that stone from yesterday, just like i love you. both inspire me.

imagine

letter to an angel i could not have imagined it. this is not the first time that this happens. i plod along in my seemingly meaningless life, and then there is a call from you. you call, you express yourself and i listen. this happens: we hold hands, we sleep, we eat, we love. yet there is something that i have learned during the past weeks away from that which is not yet routine, yet begs to become routine: the writing, the expression, the exploration, the weaving and the synthesis of so much that we share and experience. imagine that i spend one week in that place where we often had dinner together and i listened to you and your struggles. there, in the hectic of that city that we love and hate, there i did not think of you, yet you were constantly present. imagine the freedom that we share in having each other's incomprehensible touch being experienced throughout time and space. imagine! imagine ecstasy, and imagine the fear. imagine it all. want nothing. not you. not me. just nothing at all, imagine!