Not Enoughitis

This a real journal entry. My own journal. My most intimate thoughts that I’m willing to share with anyone who might be going through chronic depression. I changed and omitted names to respect people’s privacy. Here’s a look into the mind of somebody suffering from not enoughitis and being in complete denial that there was anything wrong with her mental health. I hope this helps. I would also like to tell you, my reader, that you are enough.

Feb 28th, 2022

Its been 6 months!

So I’m doing therapy now. I really like her. Amanda is her name. I never know whether to call her Dr. Smith though. It feels forced, so I just say hello. We do video calls. I don’t know how I feel about it, but it’s ok, I suppose.

Talking to her made me realize that maybe what I really would like is to have a friend. She feels like she’s a friend. For 50 minutes. Then she’s gone. A friend that I pay for. Like some people pay for sex, I pay for friendship. No strings attached.

She really has been helping me. Giving me some tools in order to sleep better, have less anxiety about my son leaving for college, etc… Sometimes I worry that she’s too expensive and that my insurance won’t cover much. I keep thinking about my sis in law’s therapist in Brazil. She’s much cheaper and we could talk more often. I feel bad about having to break up with Amanda, but I might not have a choice.

There’s a few things I want to bring up on our next session, so I decided to write it here. It feels good to journal again. It feels good to write again. So here they are:

  • Obsession with a Brazilian writer called Clarice Lispector.

  • Excessive consumption of her books.

  • Excessive consumption of trying to find out what her routine looked like by reading her biographies and a book of letters that she wrote to family and friends.

  • What she ate, what time she woke up, what time she wrote and how she lived her daily life.

  • Finding out very little about the details.

  • Proceeding to get frustrated because all I want is to be her.

  • The fact that’s she’s so mysterious is probably what’s so alluring to me.

  • Why do I not want to be myself? Why is it not enough?

Things I have in common with Clarice:

1- We are both very maternal

2- We feel dead when we are not creating.

3-We both hate crowds and small talks.

4-We both think our work is shit. Except mine really is.

I’m trying to write a science fiction novel in English , which is my second language, but I feel that i’m a lot smarter in Portuguese. But all my research is done from books written in English, so I don’t have the Portuguese vocabulary for this specific novel.

Clarice writes books about the deepest and darkest feelings and thoughts of all human beings such as a woman who decides to eat a cockroach. (Passion According to G.H.)

There’s a quote from that book that says: “Don’t get rid of all your flaws, you never know which one keeps your entire building standing.” I mean…. FUCK!

In all her life, she gave but only a couple of interviews, and on her last one, she requested it to be televised only after her death. (who asks for things like that?) She died in 1977 of cancer. I was one. So no chance she reincarnated in me.

People who knew her said she liked being a mom and a housewife. And she would sit on her couch, with her typewriter on her lap and write her books while living her life.

I take pictures of myself sometimes recreating her looks and expressions

I write short stories in Portuguese trying to emulate her way of writing. Minus her genius.

She and I started reading and writing at a very early age.

I wish we could’ve been friends.

All and all, she’s a major inspiration.

Here’s a quote from her last interview: ‘When I talk to adults, its more difficult, because Im talking to the darkest side of myself.” (when asked which was easier, talking to adults or kids)

I don’t know. Maybe I won’t tell my therapist all these things. (*I didn’t) It sounds creepy. Maybe because it is.

Just for reference of time: Russia has invaded Ukraine.

********************

Remember September

Remember, remember the seventeenth of September.

Green fields of blue and white.

A dark soul of naught and fright.

Remember, remember the seventeenth of September.

A mind altered whose feet faltered.

Kicked the glass already broken,

cracked the heart slowly chocking.

Remember, remember the seventeenth of September.

Shattered dreams of ever after,

emptiness was now her master.

At a crossroads the girl knew then,

it was the beginning of the end.

Infinita Procura

A procura de um significado, sigo eu. Eu sigo e as vezes acho que significado algum é pra ser encontrado. Mas será que isso significa que o significado é tão, mas tão imenso que ainda não nos cabe entender por completo?

Estamos todos unidos, quase de mãos dadas, nesta procura sem fim. Nascemos sem saber, e sem saber morreremos. Talvez nos será dito depois. Mas quero é saber de tudo! Não me venham falar que ainda não estou preparada. Quero um PORQUE. Uma razão somente. Bem redonda, daquelas que caibam todos os significados dentro.

Quero um início, uma explicação para o começo. Nem precisa me dizer o fim logo de cara. Mas talvez nem precise, pois chegarei as minhas próprias conclusões.

Acho que o que me será revelado, será com imagens e não palavras em uma língua ou outra. Irão me mostrar na tela todo o sistema solar. A nossa estrela mãe e seus planetas filhos. Todos eles populados. Mas como? Mandamos probes e não vimos ninguém! Mas agora vejo! Tenho olhos de ótima qualidade!

Então afinal, eis uma informação: planetas são espaçonaves orgânicas. Nós pertencemos à tripulação terráquea, mas nossas máquinas humanas individuais que pilotamos e que carregam toda a nossa informação, estão sujeitas a perda total.

Poderíamos viajar nessas máquinas por períodos mais longos, mas não estamos interessados em cuidar da manutenção. Somente levamos ao mecânico vez em quando se ela pifa aqui ou acolá. Enfim, quando uma máquina perece, precisamos transferir toda essa informação para uma outra. E assim seguimos nessa eterna viagem ao nada. Ao tudo. À um destino que talvez um dia fará a nossa existência fazer algum sentido.

O Que Queremos é Teatro

Ela vai à Marte mas não é capaz de viajar pra dentro de si, com destino aos cantos mais escuros de sua mente.

Se conhecer é também se negar. É um simplesmente não aceitar aquela pessoa que você olha no espelho quando passa o batom ou penteia os cabelos.

Essa pessoa tão facilmente criada por um medo. O medo de quem está dentro dos olhos de quando se olha um espelho. Não para se admirar, mas para se perguntar. Quando os olhos do espelho olham dentro do seu olho, é quando você realmente enxerga quem você é.

Somente alguns segundos se passam e você rapidamente fecha as cortinas da retina e presta atenção na sobrancelha que está para ser feita.

Ninguém quer ficar olhando pra “aquele” olho.

Aquele olho quer que você abra o olho!

Mas o que queremos mesmo é teatro.

Resgate

O que aconteceu no meio? Nesse meio da vida da gente que não é infância e também não é agora? Eu me olho no espelho. Sou eu. Ainda. Eu. Mas a familiaridade da aparência não consegue disfarçar. Essa é outra. Uma outra menina de 8 anos, que de repente observa uma ruga, um fio de cabelo branco e simplesmente levanta os ombros e suspira. Um cheiro de café, um bolo de fubá, um samba canção de Chico Buarque. Fecho os olhos e Vale A Pena Ver De Novo na tv. Tieta. Cheiro de esmalte. O telefone toca. Quem sera? As cartas sendo embaralhadas para o jogo de buraco. Ar condicionado só para os ricos. Ventilador de pé ligado. É domingo. A Gata E O Rato, depois os Trapalhões. Colo de biza. Segunda de manha, Balão Magico, Narizinho, café com leite e pão torrado com manteiga. Queria biscoito recheado igual a casa da minha prima. Meus pais saíram pra jantar. Vamos assistir Poltergeist! Bicicleta no Campo de São Bento. Panzeroto. Como odiávamos dormir à tarde! Piscina do Canto do Rio com Skinny e Mineirinho. Peitinho nascendo. Inocência morrendo. Vontade de estar em algum outro lugar, menos ali. Mas ali estava. E como estava. Presente. Ali.

Lily nos trouxe goiabada com queijo e doce de leite no meio do filme. Victor ou Victoria. Ou será Ben Hur?

Memorias vivas em uma mente que não se lembra. O que vim fazer aqui nesse quarto mesmo? Nessa vida automatizada, aparelhos nos lembram quem somos, pra onde vamos, com quem e a que horas. A ansiedade do proximo instante causa muita ansiedade. Uma angustia de querer reviver a meninice, não pela aparência física, mas pelo o que me fazia sentir. Sentir bem ou sentir mal. Não existiam anestesias.

Caetano Veloso num fusquinha amarelo bege indo pra praia de Camboinhas, amassada entre os irmãos. Primeiro sol da manhã. Agua do mar gelada mas depois acostuma. Furar onda e levar soca abre o apetite. Skinny com coca cola morninha. Em casa cabelos molhados pos banho. Feijão, arroz e Beatles.

No espelho, essa menina de 8 anos com rugas e cabelo branco. Com casa, marido, filhos e neta. Com sonhos, ansiedades e preocupações terríveis. Com arroz, feijão e Chico Buarque.

A menina que queria estar em qualquer outro lugar menos lá, sorri para a menina que daria tudo para voltar.

THE LAST TIME I SAW MY MOTHER

The last time I saw my mother I didn’t know it was going to be the last time.

The last time I saw my mother, she didn’t see me.

The last time I saw her, she didn’t see herself. She didn’t see how long and gray her hair had grown or noticed there was no color on her nails.

The last time I saw my mother, she didn’t know her chest was moving up and down following the rhythm of a machine. She couldn’t see the amount of drugs she was hooked up to, keeping her alive and mercifully asleep.

She didn’t see that when I got to her room that day and saw her hair drenched in sweat, I realized immediately that something had gone terribly wrong.

She couldn’t see the despair on my face or my tears pouring over hers. She didn’t know her heart had stopped beating for five minutes.

The last time I saw my mother, she couldn’t hear “Doe, a deer, a female deer..” playing on my phone right next to her ear. She could have never guessed her beloved Julie Andrews would perform her requiem. She didn’t see me crying and singing out loud and letting her know that she could go, if she needed to go, but begging her to please stay.

The last time I saw my mother she didn’t feel my fingers going through her hair or my lips wet with tears kissing her forehead. Regret laced tears of unanswered phone calls and unsaid I love yous.

The last time I saw my mother was the first time I realized how much I longed to hear her voice just one more time. It was the first time I realized how painfully I would miss her.

The last time I saw my mother, I knew she would take a piece of me with her.

The last time I saw my mother, was the first time I understood the meaning of too late.

•••

I miss my mom. Every day. I live with the little consolation that I, at least, got to say that I loved her over the phone right before she went into surgery. She died on April 16, 2022 of anesthesia complications and other underlying illnesses. She Is survived by her loving husband and my brothers and I. She will be eternally loved and missed.

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I have a little story inside of me. It’s locked with 7 keys and safely put away. It wants to come out, like the big one did. It scratches and digs at my skin from the inside with its giant claws. It crawls up and down like a metal spider gnawing at me. I can touch it from the outside like a mother can touch her unborn child’s little finger when it pushes it against her belly. Sometimes, when it gets angry, it squeezes my heart into a string and ties it into a nautical knot. It holds my lungs so tightly, they have nowhere to expand to. No wonder I can never catch my breath these days. Not yet satisfied with the damage, it spits into my eyeballs overflowing them with liquid pain. It wants to be set free. I want to let it out. I really do. But I’m not ready yet. I don’t understand why I can’t just keep it to myself.
- “I don’t belong to you. - It says. Let me out”. (Sounds like an order)

These pesky stories tend to be wild by nature.
I had to clip its wings. They grew back. Sometimes they flutter and tickle my tummy. It’s a pleasant sensation. It makes me want to fly.
One night as I slept soundly, it made its way into my brain and woke me up in the middle of a dream. Who does that? Unruly child that it is, it sat on my ear drum and… IT. JUST. WOULDN’T. SHUT. UUUUP!
It can’t seem to understand that all I want is to protect it from the outside world and its harsh criticism.
- “I want what’s best for you. Promise.” I said.
-“I’m not alone in here. You do know there’s others. Right? There’ll be mayhem if you don’t let us all out soon.”
- “Fine.- I said defeated and exhausted. Form a line. You go first. I should warn you there’s no coming back in once you’re out. So you’re in your own. But wait… I still don’t know your name.”

The Room Of Dancing Shadows

She did the dishes precisely and violently. Strapped her boots on and stormed out the door. She made it look like a fast paced stroll but inside, she was running. As if escaping a house on fire. She knew that place would still be there and it would bring her back to herself. She knew the frozen lake would pump fresh air back into her lungs. Rid her of all the staleness that had become her. Fine tune her scrambled thoughts at last.
The smallness of her world had shapeshifted into a giant ferine beast with sharp teeth tearing at her skin and gnawing on her from the inside.
All that stood in her way was a few hellos to the neighbors and strident barks from their dogs.
Just a few more steps. She can now see it from a distance. She picks up her pace and a wave of impatience hits her in the face.

Brown Grass. Trees. Naked. Flickering in the wind, casting shadows like glowing tongues of candles. She’s close enough now to see the lake. Her eyes capture the frozen beauty. She walks up to the fence. She can go no further. She needs not to go any further. Her heartbeat starts settling and the sun follows along. The sky, a mixture of blue and pink haze just over the small valley. Svelte trees lined up on the top and she wonders if they were there yesterday. Certainly there was not a detail of this place that hasn’t been captured by her mind. She feels an urge to write about it. The words start pouring out of her but not a pen and paper on site. She’s reminded one more time of the vastness of life and that thought alone soothes her troubled soul. It only took but a few seconds. Like a combative patient in a mental hospital who’s administered sedatives. This place, she thinks, is where she’ll go after she dies.

Confutatis Maledictis. Flammis acribus addictis . Voca me cum benedictis. She sings along wondering why someone would compose their own Requiem. Probably much like a carpenter building their own coffin or a writer picking her own place to arrive upon her death. She chuckled.

When you’re in pain everything becomes so beautiful. Painfully beautiful. Writing from a place of pain, worrying the words into existence, somehow transcends those same words into a different realm. Suspended in time. Frozen solid for passer bys to admire. Much like her frozen lake.

Were there to be an observer at that moment, they would simply wonder what’s so interesting about some dead grass, leafless trees and a small frozen pond. What they wouldn’t see is these very things pulling at her spirit, and she, fervently surrendering her fate to them.

The indescribable beauty of nature, the sky on a cold crisp night full of stars and wonders never fails to put a smile on her face and all the troubles of this universe and the next, seem so minuscule and insignificant. Life and all that comes with it, good and bad, is absolutely wonderful. Who are we, if not collectors of moments?

The giant has been fed. She starts making her way back home. ChopIn’s Nocturne in her ear makes the perfect soundtrack for the most beautiful sunset she’s ever seen. Much like the one the day before. And the day before that. She recognizes herself now. The beast is asleep.

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And The Man In The Mirror Had Sad Eyes

Staring at a mirror for so long, you don’t recognize the person looking back.
Silencing when words just won’t do.
Not writing when you can’t seem to accurately translate what you’ve imagined.
Not touching another for fear of indifference.
Falling asleep when you simply cannot.
Losing sleep when you’re over tired.
That sweet second upon wakening when you remember the details of your dream.
Slowing down your reading as if somehow this would prevent you from reaching the end of the book.
First sip of water down a dry throat.
Fictional world building under a scalding shower.
Wrinkly fingers after a long bath.
Wrapping your hands around your mug as you take the first sip of coffee in the morning.
A visible moon during the day.
Barefoot on the grass.
Warm sunshine on your skin after a long winter.
When 100 layers of clothing just won’t warm you up.
Taking off your bra after a long day.
Feeling you’re falling as you drift off into a deep sleep.
A baby’s toothless smile.
A long embrace.
A longing for an embrace.
Watching your pet take its last breath.
Watching your daughter give birth.
Sweet mango juice dripping down your face.
Mango hairs between your teeth.
Wet socks.
Barefoot on the sand.
Cool breeze on a summer day.
First bite of chocolate cake.
Understanding what someone’s eyes tell you.
Calling someone on the telephone just as they’re calling you.
Swimming In the ocean.
Pink sunsets.
Mourning the end of a book for days and days.
Freshly washed hair.
Freshly washed sheets.
When it’s 9 pm and it’s still light out.
This combination: rain+tea+blanket+book.
The first time you hold your baby outside your womb.
The cracking noise your spine makes during a yoga twist.
Checking off items on your to do list and simultaneously adding up more things to do.
Laughing so hard you tear up.
Loving so hard you tear up.
Turning off your alarm clock before going to sleep.
The smell of toast.
Burning your tongue eating hot pizza.
Listening to your favorite song on repeat.
Starting over again with undiminished enthusiasm after failing for the 209th time.

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Much Needed Mystery

Authors, please remain mysterious! I’ve been wanting to write about this for quite some time, but only now after “going dark” a couple of days ago, have I felt the urge to scribble on the subject. I would’ve probably sounded like a hypocrite if I were still scrolling my life away on Instagram.

Due to my new found lack of social media presence, I know fully well this blog post will probably remain unread. Maybe it’s my deepest darkest desire that it shall remain floating aimlessly through the vast ether of the interwebs. Maybe a fan of my (yet to be finished) book will find this blog after much digital digging and they’ll be delighted to find something other than what I’ve had for breakfast that day.

I have experienced a diminished interest for certain authors that have taken the expression “my life is an open book” quite literally. I have no desire to learn about your struggles and your vulnerability. I don’t want to relate to you. I don’t want to think I can ever relate to you. I want you to remain a mystery to me. It keeps me curious about you. And if I’m curious about you, I will read your other books to find out more about you.

I have connected with an author on Instagram and got to know quite a bit about their personality, so it’s to no surprise that when I read their book, my judgement of it was completely altered because I didn’t expect someone like them would write such an ending. That wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten to know them a little. There’s a loss of magic in too much transparency.

I only speak for myself, of course. I’m sure there are plenty of people that love fangirling their favorite actors and authors. And they’re ok with it. And no love is ever lost.

I have only gotten back to social media a couple years ago after staying off it for over a year and half. I was told authors must have a social presence in all media platforms and publishers won’t even consider you if you have none. Knowing the amount of effort required to grow a following, I knew I’d have to invest some time navigating the interwebs waters, I just didn’t expect to get caught up on it again and forget all about why I was spending so much time scrolling. It wasn’t about my book anymore. The addiction creeped up again. I stopped making YouTube videos, abandoned my author Facebook page (I actually detest Facebook), this very blog and saddest of all, my book. Not that I was spending 24 hours on Instagram, but when I had a spare moment, that’s where you’d find me.

The further away you go from social media, that’s where you want to stay. I hear that from every person who decided to quit. I can do, well, everything else now! Literally everything and anything my heart desires. Like for instance printing and putting into physical albums the pictures I so eagerly take instead of posting them for the world to see. Little things I’ve been putting off for a lifetime, I suddenly have time to do. I don’t want to do more house chores, I want to do the things that feed my soul. I want to create. I don’t want to show up on your feed. I want my work to speak for me. There’s a certain freedom attached to putting something out there and expecting no feedback whatsoever.
Publishers, you’ve got this all wrong! Overexposure is detrimental to one’s career. Not all layers must be uncoiled.

Don't subscribe to my blog to get updates sent to your email. I believe you will come back if you’re interested.

Don’t get to know me too well.

Authors, please remain mysterious! Don’t show me your vulnerability under all that brilliance. Leave me bewitched.

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Realistic Writer Routine

Small disclaimer: English is NOT my first language. I am from Brazil, and typically, parents enroll their kids in an english course so they can learn the basics of the language and somewhat supplement the English classes of their school curriculums. Fast forward a few years, I married an American and have lived in the United Stated for the past 17 years. I’ve always loved to read, but never really developed the habit until my husband, boyfriend at the time, gave me a Danielle Steel book to read while he was away on business. It was one of those little books you buy from the drugstore. I absolutely loved it and from then on, he would always bring me a different one from his travels. I read romance novels mostly, and got to know many other authors, including Jane Austen, who introduced me to a whole different level of the English language. Let’s just say there was always a dictionary nearby whenever I was reading her books. And food. Her books always made me hungry. I have tried countless times to recreate the tea sandwiches from the endless picnic baskets. Ok, don’t get me started on Jane Austen or I would have to change the title of this blog entirely.

Some of you might have heard of a movie called Interstellar. Some of you might have watched it a couple times or 30. Who’s counting? This movie was the beginning of my fascination with the cosmos. I started reading Michio Kaku, Carl Sagan, Neil deGrasse Tyson, Brian Greene, Neil Gaiman, Isaac Asimov and a few others. Suddenly, my interests shifted to astrophysics and String Theory. I even own a copy of Principia Mathematica by Isaac Newton, only to marvel at his genius.

It was upon reading The Future of Humanity by Kaku for maybe the third or fourth time, that I had an idea for the book I’m currently writing. Mars, A Journey Back Home is the tentative title. In this book, I explore the possibility that we are descendants of martians. There’s also space travel, AIs, dinosaurs, early humans and as it turns out, my passion for those specific subjects didn’t make me an expert on any of them. I have spent countless hours on research and will spend countless more.

To date, I have a whopping total of 4300 words to my first draft which I have started writing over a year ago. Not a lot to show for myself at the moment, so I need to step up my writing game.

For the past week or so, I have noticed that if I resist the urge to read the newspaper, (on print, I’m old fashioned and love the black ink on my fingers) practice yoga, make my bed, do a load of laundry or clean the house first thing in the morning, and just sit down and write instead, the story moves forward a lot faster. It is important for a writer to learn what time of the day their brain is working at its absolute best and use that power to harness all your creativity.

Doing house chores is the biggest procrastination factor for me, and if I prioritize it, the only time left for me to write is at night, after I’ve cooked dinner and cleaned the kitchen. And when that moment finally comes, my brain is fried and just wants to shut down. So I decided something had to change and my current routine is somewhat as follows:

  • Wake up at 6. Make my son his breakfast and lunch to take to school and see him off to school and my husband off to work.

  • Make a chai latte. Sit in front of the computer on my breakfast table and write for 2 hours.

  • Make breakfast. Usually oatmeal, or a bowl of fruits and nuts or a smoothie and coffee with a splash of almond creamer. Eat breakfast in front of the computer while I write for 2 more hours.

  • Get up, change out of my pjs, brush teeth, make the beds, clean the house, do a load of laundry.

  • Do yoga. Walk on treadmill or outside if its pleasant. (It hasn’t been)

  • Take a shower. Have lunch in front of computer while I write for a couple more hours. I usually have a green smoothie.

  • Get up with a stiff neck. Make dinner, clean kitchen. Hang out with the family.

  • Go to bed. Try to read more than 5 pages of a book. Fall asleep. Alternatively, watch old episodes of Pink Panther.

  • Wake up at 2 am with bouts of anxiety. Play Wordscapes on my phone until I fall back to sleep.

  • And let’s not forget YouTube and Instagram distractions throughout all of the steps above.

Obviously not all days are the same. There are errands to be run, appointments to go to, grocery shopping to be done. I have to take it one day at a time, making my best to reach the 100.000 word count I’m expected to write on my genre, which is Adult Science Fiction/Fantasy. And if I would like to finish my first draft this year, I will have to adhere to a routine as close to this one as possible. Making up for the days with a lower word count.

There’s one step I didn’t include on the list above and it’s my least favorite:

  • Have a social media presence.

I do have one, but it’s not very conducive to book marketing. So I have to get right on that. And one of the platforms I was advised to create besides Twitter, was a website. So here I am, introducing myself and my book to the world. I believe in my story and I will be damned if I don’t tell it.

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Realistic Writer Routine

Confessions of a housewife writing her first novel.

Derradeiro Adeus

Entao, perece seu corpo frio na madrugada. Seu ultimo pensamento talvez tenha sido arrependimento. E a realização do tarde demais. O peito se inundando de um nada cheíssimo de dor. Os olhos inchados e abertos. queria fecha-los, mas ja não possuia controle algum sobre suas pálpebras. O intervalo entre uma respiração e outra tornara-se tao longa, que ja não tinha muita certeza se ainda lhe havia ar nos pulmões ou simplesmente sonhava que ainda respirava.

Um cheiro putrido lhe invadia as narinas. Seu corpo expulsara o veneno que ingerira juntamente com uma bilis negra. Nada mais havia em seu estômago por dias. Lembrara-se de sua face no espelho horas atras. Olheiras profundas. Corpo dolorido. Pele e osso exercendo diariamente sua malcriada profissão.

Vaga lembrança de amor lhe tomava conta na hora derradeira. A mao carinhosa, beijos longos e aflitos, corpos que não se resistiam. Doloroso bálsamo do amor que lhe abraçava o cadaver semi frio. O amor, pensava, uma eterna procura que so dura enquanto não se o acha.

Quero ficar bem aqui, so eu e Deus e minha dor silenciosa que faz minha alma gritar em espanto. O que fui, não me lembro bem, deixo pra trás somente aquilo que senti. E nem mesmo isso me e permitido levar. Entao sigo aos gritos rumo ao desconhecido carregando somente a minha dor. Não se esqueca de mim quando fechar seu olhos na madrugada insone.

Me de tua mao… Tenho medo… Cuide de mim… Não largue da minha mao… Ouco vozes a me caluniar! Tenho frio! Aperta minha mao! Por que não te sinto perto? Lembro do nosso amor desajeitado e o teu cheiro me abraça. Me perdoe! Me ame! Me odeie! So não me abandone sozinho nesta estrada cheia de vozes que me atacam…

Sou criança novamente. Lembro da tua mao.

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A Louca e a Espada

Com uma espada que descansa confortavelmente sobre seu pescoço endurecido, estremecido, com uma vida que lhe era própria de um pescoço que ja tivera passado por varias tristezas e decepções, angustias e prazeres, solidão e excessos; ela vivia. Ela esperava o momento em que a verdade dura da realidade que ela tinha guardado em uma caixinha de bombom com formato de coração, lhe tirasse a cabeça. A espada que iria lhe cortar aquela cabeça inventada por ela, não sua cabeça do dia a dia, mas uma cabeça de sonhos impossíveis, de viagens que nunca faria. Uma vida de um livro de conto de fadas. Ah como ela se impressionava com os livros!

Tinha uma mania infantil de se transportar para aqueles mundos e se tornar parte deles. Ela era a personagem, a mocinha da estória, naquele momento breve de leitura. Vestia-se das mesmas roupas. Comia as mesmas comidas. Comprava outros livros para entender melhor como aquele livro funcionava. Era quase que como uma obsessão. Um querer acima do que lhe era permitido. Mas como a imaginação sincera de uma criança, seu querer naquele momento não lhe impunha limites. Seu querer era segredo. Seu querer, como um desejo de criança pelo seu brinquedo favorito no Natal, era so dela, e sob esse querer ninguém mais tinha poder. So ela o moldaria como bem o entendesse.

Um querer que nao necessitava da aprovação ou permissão de outros, como tudo mais na sua vida era requerido. Inventava-se e reinventava-se como se cada pagina lida fosse um dia de sua vida. Não queria ser ela mesma, sempre queria ser palavra na pagina em branco.

Mas e a espada? Ela ja sentia o gume gelado que encostava em sua pele suada e ansiosa, quase que desejando um fim rápido. Por pouco não pusera sua própria mão sobre a espada e forcara o instrumento contra seu pescoço. Imaginou as varias camadas que iriam se abrir uma por uma. Cortinas da fantasia de uma cabeça imaginaria, que mais uma vez se desintegraria. Aquela espada conhecida e familiar, que lhe servira como proteção contra ela mesmo. Era quase que bem vinda a sua chegada. Antecipava esse momento com tristeza e alivio. A cabeça doida estava prestes a desparecer. Sentia um frio na barriga. Um medo de tudo. Uma preocupação que ja fizera morada em seu ser.

Por que então criar essas cabeças loucas, se sabia que elas seriam decepadas a determinado momento? Não sabia viver como uma “normal”, regular, sociável e domesticada dama. Precisava de um sei la o que de loucura, de um medo de arriscar tudo para não cair no fundo sem poco da depressão. A loucura a mantinha sana. A loucura lhe dava um propósito, por isso, quando uma era decepada, ela ia la e construía outra. E de loucura em loucura, ela vivendo seus dias, com disciplina exemplar que so os loucos possuem.

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Lingua Materna

Estou seca. Oca. Eu persigo as palavras e elas me fogem. As palavras, elas não querem ser digitadas e deletadas em um instrumento tecnológico, mascaradas de um idioma estrangeiro opressor. As palavras, minhas amigas de priscas eras, tem um desejo: serem escritas e rabiscadas a caneta, ou lapis. Ate mesmo uma lapiseira. Em folha de papel. Caligrafia caprichada. Escrita em cursiva. Por-tu-gues. Ah, português, como quero lembrar de ti! Lembro que escrevia contos e mais contos na juventude. Sempre lendo o jornal porque queria ser jornalista. Trabalhar em um jornal, escrever artigos, ser independente. Uma mulher. Uma carreira. Uma realização. Lembro. Lembro como se fosse ontem. Mas aquela menina, não sei mais quem ela e.

Como mudei, e mudo. De um minuto para outro, me refaço. Da agua pro vinho, do romance para a ficção cientifica. Quantas versões de mim mesma serei capaz de inventar? Qual delas prefiro? Prefiro a ultima. Gosto de viver dias iguais sendo pessoas diferentes. Pois ora, se ate o mesmo livro muda a cada vez que e se lido, por que eu, de pele e osso e sem saber saber quantas paginas em branco ainda me restam, não vou mudar? Nunca entendi quem diz que nunca mudou. Com ate um certo orgulho na voz. Talvez mintam. Talvez tenham medo de ao mudar, por fim se encontrarem e não saber o que fazer com a nova informação.

Eu me encontro e minutos depois ja me perco. Uma incessante busca de algo que não sei muito bem o que e. Sei que sigo em frente em direção a uma resposta. Quero saber qual e o significado da vida. Na minha opinião, e seguir indagando, explorando ate um dia finalmente encontrarmos a resposta. E com ela, mais de mil perguntas que ainda nem foram perguntadas. Daremos risadas altas! Ha! Nem sabíamos que não sabíamos! E ainda assim, não sera o fim.

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