WHEN DID YOU FORGET ME?
I believe I let the record player die in the old house next door, but it was with me for years. You know, all things go with me for centuries, and I can't get rid of them physically. And now I know that it's not affection or attachment, it's pure disinterest. It's the record player, the bicycle, the notebooks and notebooks of the degree, boxes and boxes of, yes, of, I said it well and I don't even correct it, because it seems to me the perfect word. Clogged with personal and non-transferable goods. And that go straight to the container. I would like to do the same with this question, but my heart would be dissimulating in disinterest the only thing that troubles me and brings light to my days. You. And of this written question, I don't know how long ago, I can't be precise, I haven't been to the keep block for some time, I write everything off the cuff and it, the question, may have been here for months. The last note was this question. I am addressing it today. That way, the keep box is already clean. There are answers that time brings us, answers that are many years old, even as old as the traumatic events that live there, in these decades of time, where my name is still hostage, leaning against it, holding a I don't know what, and I don't want to know either. And then there are others that come to us as a consequence of something that wasn't even asked. I'll keep your subway. Your photo. Your affection. I keep in my memory, precise and precious, the moments by your side, for a long time, I know, however, that they do not have cobwebs, to the degree to which I often return there. I am a willing hostage to these moments. As for the Niquisses and merdices that accumulate in boxes and bags, behind the doors of the old house, in the bedrooms, in the cellar, these things are just garbage that bothers me. Nothing else. I really miss you, it's absolute longing, and maybe it could be measured, if you came to see me, as Florbela used to say, in the evening, at that time of magical tiredness and held me all in your arms, maybe it would be measured with your meter that was absolute longing, without any relativity. Brute, hurt, afflicted, understood and healed, ah, I would be cured if I were Florbela and you came to see me tonight evening. But the question does not change, nor shrinks, nor disappears to a place far from the soul, and I stretch my arms, my legs, and become elastic, at the tips of my fingers towards the sky, I do not reach you, I receive no answer, but still this love overcomes me, inside out. And it grows by lack and bursts into joyful sobs, by imagining that you can come one day, any day, without commitment, you can come in the evening and, just by imagining it, my face takes on colors and blushes, like a tangerine, and I shudder, because I want you, what an embarrassment, that I want you as if you were the same sixteen-year-old girl from whom you picked a flower, to whom you have dedicated love poems, to whom you have given a son, to whom you have taken this soul of mine hostage. Yesterday, at the end of the day, very tired, still waiting for my mother to get tired of the TV shows and want to sleep, I fell asleep. I woke up shortly after, it doesn't matter, I woke up and in the video I was listening to, someone was talking about Figueira de Castelo Rodrigo and I saw you again, seeing the three of us, in fact, everyone, everyone who was with us. I focused on you. At lunch. You talked and smiled, directing smiles to me that were only mine of complicity. In the restaurant. Then in Moita, in the public square, the bullfights and my affliction with the boy, you laughed. At Torre Dona Chama, my exploration of the sites has always pleased me greatly. And the next thing I knew, I heard my mother's cane hit the floor from the living room, through the kitchen, into the hallway, right next to my bedroom. - I've already washed my teeth, aren't you...? And I got up, put on the chanatos and went to the bathroom. -Mom, I'm going to give you the medication. And I went, right after washing my teeth. She would smile and tell me about what she had seen in the programs, and sometimes I pretend to hear it, but I only know that I didn't hear it, later, when I go back to my room and try to remember, or when she says to me at lunch: only yesterday I told you! - Well, my selective head only captures inside information. Not big brothers, not politics, not wood, not albuquerques, not salamanders. I've been in the paints for many years for television, for information, for fake news, for uninteresting debates, for baiões, melons, dragons, and all kinds of morcões. And I choose what can affect me, I choose the information that can pass on, that I should be concerned about. And if you want to know, that is, if you really wanted to know, you would know that I don't pay attention to anything that takes me away from the memories that I preserve, from our common stories that I still keep, to the point of classifying them as with details. And in my mind, the biggest concern, the one I struggle with and don't see the hill, is the question that begins the text: when did you forget me? Was it right after? Was it a month later, half a year, a year and a half, a decade, two, three? Tell me so that I can continue the thorough cleaning of my life without you, to build a plan B, maybe C, D, E F, G, Agá. My sanity needs plans. Not my insanity. It doesn't require any plans. When the dark comes, I open the window, and smoke a cigarette, looking at the stars towards you. Is there ever a time when you look up at the sky and remember me? No meter shortens distances, no text can contain hopes, none of us is a child anymore, none of us dreams of perfection. However, my child insists on telling me that yes, that I dream, that I want, that I desire, that I hope, that I sleep and that I wake up and that he does not want me to give up waiting for you And I obey, because there are no messages, no emails, no way to know about you or to see this question that I long for answered in front of me, like a snap, like an eye opener, like an unofficial. Thus, I keep my thirst and hunger sanity, and I temper the insanity in the breaths of the castle hill, in the head, I don't forget, I don't know how to forget, and it will continue to hurt, I know, I know it, I know that I disconnect from the world, because in my world there is no more room for nonsense, Not profanity from others, not a misplaced comma, not energy spent on anything. In my world, little one, you live alone, with a starry sky, a warning ship, a table, a garden, and a fresh lemonade, and before I forget, an ice cream for dessert. And if you read me, would you answer? And if you knew that I dedicate my days to you, would you take five minutes out of your day to come and see me? Or to call me and hurt me? Would you take another poem out of your pocket? Or would you reinvent a third world war, a skirmish, an accidental defeat, or would you invite me for a snack at the ramirinho, the frog, the pot, the carvalhinho winery, the bread museum, the mill cellar, the cedar or, as fate, the moimenta, which awaits me? If you knew how I feel, would you tremble with fear, with anger, would you keep it a secret or open a clearing, so that you could come and visit this friend of so many years? What would you do if you hadn't forgotten me? The vilar dam is also in my plans for ten months or ten years, with you or without you, even without you with you in me, who nothing takes me to these places but you, who know the whole of Portugal inside out and it was with you that I met it. That life went on after you, it went on, in a sequence of seconds that turned into years and everything went on without you, everything became new and new without you, everything, and I who always believed, like Pablo, that when you were gone, you died in me, that angel guarded you and kept you alive like this, intercepting the lines of my life, that it's not called life, that this is not living, to put it more succinctly, this is surviving, this survival glued to me that doesn't know how to hide the immense that you are and that you continue to grow, you in your life parallel to my survival, you who continue to dictate the coordinates of my affection, as if they had not passed me by all these decades. I serve sentences of a convict. I still don't know the crime. Perhaps I don't even want to dare to scrutinize these crimes or the injustice of the penalty. Maybe I can sum it up to sum you up my lack of you, the lack of you in the days, And that a single day could bring healing or cancel the advance of the fatigue that overwhelms the rest, when I lie down in my room, in bed, when I try not to go crazy, already going crazy with memories, in the songs, trauteando and others accompanying the melody with sobs that I stifle between handkerchiefs and blankets, between volume and patience.
When did you forget me, don't you want to tell me?
You didn't need to tell me the day or the time, the year was enough. In what season did you forget that I existed? It was summer, certainly, because it is always in the summer that I die, dragging myself through the winter, in the hell of being alive! How I would like to be able to overcome this longing, to catapult it to a new threshold, that of appeasement, that of acceptance. These dungeons are terrible, because if you notice, I have legs, I have a way of moving, I have arms to lead, I have time to get to you, because I even know your address, and perhaps I know what posture you would be in if I were there, and I looked at you, and perhaps I guess the look you would give me, what prison it is, that the key is with me, that I want to see you every day, to see you and look at you, to lean against you and smell you, because I am not lacking in ways to do so; But there must be no worse dungeon than this, of a duel between the two parts of me, both know you and love you, both desire you and recognize you, but the mind tells me one thing and the heart dies when the mind speaks. And this question that I have suffocated in my throat, if answered, would untie the knots, launch me into new plans or end the tears. When did you really forget me?
No, don't tell me yet. Let my body grow old and stop shuddering, for hearing your name and imagining that one day you will come to see me, one day in the evening, at the hour of magical tiredness, when the meek night is approaching and you would hold me all in your arms. I know. Florbela knows exactly how I feel. That taste that your mouth had, the echo of your steps, your hugs and your hand in mine. No, don't answer me yet.
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