SHINING GLITTER ON GLITTER

 

One day we believe in everything. In the smell of the sea that will remain, far beyond us, in the sun that sets every day, and that promises to continue. On a day when all is joy. In a day, in an hour, in a second. And we close our eyes. And that's how we capture hope. Like one wave, then another, and another, until there are seven and the deepest one comes, the one that makes us guess Neptune at the bottom of the bottom of the heaviest waters in all the oceans. In the depths of the background, as if it were the damp and dark womb of mother earth, where all dreams collide, explode, are given birth, the womb of the world. We capture the joy, as if we were children again, the laughter, the easy laughter and the pretend that time has not escaped us. And time, that wicked one who enters into make-believe, pretending to be extinguished, neither trembles, nor softens, nor darkens, In the brushing of the eyes that have just closed and ten years, twenty years, I don't know, that my fingers run away, that I am left with sadness and that my tongue is added inside the glottis, what is time but this throbbing of temples, in this parietal of white, at a trot, running, straying the awnings,  the shutters, the oilcloths, the boats, the anchors, the edges, the pleats, the lunettes, the rhumb lines, the plumb lines, the compass, The rockets, the scythes, on the port side, in this one they run and don't die, in this turning off of lights, in this corridor of shadows, on a deck of a port where, years before we burned rolls of photographs, of the band, of the dream, of the music, of the covers, of the damn day of the interview, of the appointment on the local radio, on the radio festival, when it was time to speak,  that it should have been the hour when you should have been silent, or I should have heard a thousand voices that drowned out yours, that imposed themselves on the beloved timbre of your voice, From the content, from the intention, from the way in which the unfortunate statement came out, suddenly, that extinguished the light of my most beautiful dream, which was, after all, the concrete alley where we got lost. We lose ourselves. That was it. A thing that stole our dreams, that evil of time that rescued us from the hell of others, from the rubble of others, from the malice of others that we were on the wave of those who leaned against us, who spent the night and woke up, lighting candles, spending hours, mutilating scales and sperm and a wings roegar costume. And you wake up and you're dead. Impaled. Detonated. Self-absorbed. Pretending a life that is apparent and consumable and you know that you are left with the sleepless night of those who insist on staying in the past or of those who, not being able, push themselves into the possible future, where loneliness is not the price of disillusionment, or where loneliness is, after all, what we deserve, as punishment, the friend that dwells inside that accompanies us in the bitter and already cold coffee. The dungeons of the castle where I hid remain full of walls of wind, of the gunwales of enemies and vultures that on stormy days pass and squeak, as on the day I was forced to look at the photo carefully, the details, the minutiae, in tatters, the cunning of the fox, the vulture, the deception, the princess, That Bordeaux cow that was going to put a blindfold on you, that blindfold that stayed in your eyes for thirty years, why not forty? That gift from borrowed fado, from the neighbor next door, why not all your life, why do you wake up and look and see and understand and pretend that you let go, that you let go, that you really forgot, that you forgot me? You should be rewarded, in Sweden, in Hungary, in Morocco, in Thailand, with a cold front of thorns and oaks! How could you forget me, and I ask you as if it were a feat, but it is because for me it would be, a worthy feat, but averse to prophecy and it belies forgetfulness, epiphany, annuls the years, sadness, hoarseness, the push of the cold to the attic of nightfall, where I went all the seasons of the year, of life,  of inhuman fear, of every moment without you, of every absence of you, Only I, in the storm that arose when I didn't know how to see you go, when all things broke in me and yet, I saw you stay, frozen, slowed, guarded, walled up in the attic of my abyss. I created you a garden, a forest, an ocean, I created you a thousand and I dressed you in the clothes of thousands of characters and when I was going to undress them, none of them were you, a desperate cynicism, that of not being you, I lost you in the attic, I lost you in the basement, I lost you in my room, I lost you in the shadows, in the stars of the night, I lost you and I never knew how to find you, you never came to look for me, you never, never came to me like sea foam. And she was the one who asked you if there was a blond hair, if there was a hair, a remnant of me on the car seats, on the sandbanks, on the seats where you took me, without ever having really come to pick me up. And I, in dreams and nightmares, dragged you to you, And to the images, to the photos hidden among the books, I lost the brochures of the names of the books in which you hid, in Rua do Sol, in the gravel pits, in Rua do Almada, in Eduardo Santos Silva, on any road, in any river, on all banks and in reams of pages, in separate and uninteresting books, on shelves different from my bookshelves,  I lost you in anguish, as if I feared to meet you again, as if I feared to look at you once more and break my heart, As you had already done, I hid you from me, so that I would not dare to allow time to steal from you again. And he made me swallow the masks of the characters where you didn't enter, where you didn't fit, you didn't even know how to do that, fit the characters, and I took so many slaps from my intelligence, from my disbelief, from my lack of patience of not knowing how to forget you. One day, we're at the beach, the next, the beach is inside us. One day we love madly, but the next, love devours us, swallows us up And on those days, the recipe, the syrup, the tea, the absinthe is to close your eyes, take a deep breath. Fake strabismus. Tear veils and detonate reeds, dethrone kings and threaten trumps. Calm down in the roar of the sea. And without listening to the world, the waves, the brutality of the waves crashing against the rocks, without even allowing the sea air to make you dizzy, It is to go inside yourself, where only you exist and you can go through the shelves again, look in all the books, the images you hid and look in the face the torment you fed, look in the face of the torture you lived, look and understand why you did it, and without questioning much, forgive, especially yourself and burn the images on a pyre,  abort what made you hurt, Because not all the love in the world is pleased with expectations and not all the love in the world can nail you and push you into the game of life as if it were a make-believe that is continued. Hurry up and go to the container, go to the heart of the pain, go to the control unit, to the ignition, to the basement, go and give him vitamin, stamina, antibiotic, give him forgetfulness, give him ointment, strychnine, Make him swallow mold and wind, inject him with more love, come on, give him one more push, go crazy and kiss his mouth, burn the shit of the photograph, of the waiting, of the liturgy, of the slurred symphony, of feeling unloved, cuckolded, put the chainsaw in his throat, or kill him of thirst, of the luck that is rare and black but give him,  urgent, of this brandy, of this experiment with which he killed you! Cooling the turbines, countdown, three, two, one, tomorrow you don't remember a thing!