Neptune, road companions and the illusion of death

 

The Imortals

It has been five days since I started treatment with Xistab, which will last for 25 days. I still don't climb the walls, but spider-man would like me to do it. Niquitin is only to trick the jaws. Mint almost deceives. I never got into the game of appearances, of wanting to look instead of being and, however, the vast majority of inhuman people I met always wanted to look. I met few who were. What they were and had no shame about being real people, that real people have shadow and light, have strength and fear, have beauty and bitterness. I always had both, but now I see that I was blind and didn't know it. And to celebrate the opening of my eyes, I find myself contradicting the haecker who thought about planting himself on my pc, on facebook, on mail, on youtube, on linkedin, in short, trying to delimit my steps, now he writes there, he seems to ask for "he" and I who left myself in thongs, who stopped caring about the garbage, that I reserved the ability to empathize only for those who deserve it, I find myself literally shitting in everything that does not add to me. And I have a coffee, while enjoying a slice of bolo-rei. I never liked bolo-rei. And it is in these small details that I resemble those, from the game of appearances, the Judas I met, who evaluate the products by the package. For the rest, I happily distance myself. I don't like candied fruit, only natural fruit. Therefore, he was afraid of the old bolo-rei. Now, I remove the candied fruit, without any shame, and eat the rest. To taste in order to know and to be able to evaluate.

Overall, I'm fine. Uncle Mingos left on the 11th, in my mind, there were already so many reminders that made me go get his tenderness, his mustache, his eye, his smile, his anecdotes, Mingos and Rui Veloso's samurai, now São Martinho and the chestnuts will also remind me of him. He left, but he stayed, far beyond what he seems. It seems to be gone, doesn't it? He seems to have died, but no, that's the great illusion, he just can't cross it off on this plane, he can't sign, but he can watch, he can understand it in full. The elderly do not cry, they only observe, they look with a kind of pity and altruism at the human condition that they can only appreciate from this prism, when they ascend. To us, with legs and arms, with sensibility or colossal stupidity, everything is allowed to us, in order to fulfill ourselves. Even crying, motivated by a divine awareness of experiencing ourselves as human and being able to transcend. We will do anything and everything to follow the path of those who have come to bring light to the darkness. And while I listen to music, I don't know how to contain myself, I don't know and I don't want to contain the emotions of divine humanity vs superficial debauchery. Some of us live in appearances, they will certainly wake up when their heads hurt, they will finally realize the great illusion that is the matrix, the hamster wheel where they have put us, not God, not the superior being that inhabits us, but the earthly, the density and obscurantism of the times, the materialism that we have lived since the twentieth century. A century of materialism and nothing is more predictable than the same materialism rising in level, from the dialectical to the historical, to the social, to the cryptoanything that will match the socks, the tie, the suit, the skirt, the dress of godets, the mirror of the barbies who will one day be grandmothers, but do not want to have flabby bellies, Neither hanging skins, nor a repertoire of covers and fakes, of preaching errors and erroneous experiences. And there they go, from fake to fake, from take to take, taking some selfies for the World Cup of colossal stupidity, how they will go down in history, of one day having been more than packages, more than farces, more than fools, copies and lethargs of the same epidemic, of the appearance that they are but are not, of being and hiding that they are and living the pink illusions that only delay their growth, Come on, they grow to the sides and start to look at the fucking mirror from a bias, I don't want mirrors, after all, I'm just a flabby body in the flaccidity of human materialism! Yes! We are only souls that carry bodies and others of us believe that they are only bodies that carry stupidity and leave it with their children, stepchildren, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, nephews and occasional pathetic "friends", and leave stupidity as seeds, as inheritances to demented people, who eventually find themselves in the same circumstances, To talk about other people's lives, the bullshit, the handjob, the snotty they carry in their souls, who are unaware that love is more than a body, more than a memory, it is the whole history of humanity, it is what brings us here, it is a greater and collective purpose, but they forget that, and look at their own navel. I run away from those poppies and even find them funny, when I remember the sledgehammers, the old men, the Statler and the Waldorf (The Muppet Show), which in my view, is to combine hunger with the desire to eat, they want to defame humanity, call them, they perpetuate themselves, sheltered among inhumanity, hidden, empty, ugly, pigs and yes, very bad. They are the opposite of God's creation. The humanitarian nonsense. Art eliminates, whenever it can, all social Statlers and Waldorfs. Art awakens the gods and transforms them into creative humans. I come back to tears, I come back, I always come back, but this time, with the clear notion of being flowers, they are not weights, nor pains, nor goodbyes, nor inhuman uglies, they are drunk with emotion, humanity, longing, longing yes, a lot of longing for those who have already left and moved us, and made us more human, bigger, big stars in a bigger sky, Children, all, all children of a greater God, that of creation, that of portrait and condition, that of being beautiful and immortal when we lean over the plane of ideas, arts, music, ah, music, theater, the human way of saying I am, we are, of that immense plurality that leads us all, that motivates us, that moves us, that extracts from us the essence of lesser gods rehearsing the grands finalles, that we will all get there, but no one dies. I continue to be immersed in people like this, so beautiful, like this human being, who does not sing, but sings to everyone, carrying in his voice, more than words, more than melodies and trills, more than figurative description, much more than symphony and recreation, such a handsome man carrying the comrades who lead us all to the best. I don't know how to cry for ugly people anymore. I no longer know how to love anyone. Only the beautiful ones, only those that carry the flame of humanity than the rest, are only appearances, will-o'-the-wisps, frivolous and banalities, cruel wounds that have not found a god. And I always listen to him and in his voice, in his pose, he carries everyone, José Afonso, José Niza, Adriano Correia de Oliveira, José Mário Branco, Natália Correia, Ciríaco, Manuel Alegre, Manuel Freire, António Gedeão, António Macedo, José Carlos Ary dos Santos, Simone de Oliveira, Tonicha, Maria Guinot, Thilo Krassman, Carlos Paredes, Amália Rodrigues, Eunice Muñoz, Vitorino, Fausto, Agustina Bessa Luís, Miguel Portas, Variations, José Viana, Max, Francisco Fanhais, Raúl Solnado, Luís Goes, Joaquim Letria, Carlos Avilez, José Jorge Letria, Herman José, Nicolau Breyner, Sophia de Melo Breyner Andersen, Tozé Brito, Cesário Verde, José Saramago, Aquilino, Camões, Pessoa, and so many, Viriato Coelho, but so many who, because they are so many and so big and so human, do not find a place here, if not sitting on each other's laps, because that is how we are, talented children who grow old, go whitening, and forgetting that happy child with the bitterness of the villain that time is, stealing these and those but not dying, they continue inside, inside, so inside, everyone, everyone, Carlos Paião, António Ribeiro, Florbela Espanca, Rosa Lobato Faria, Ana Faria, Maluda, Carlos Moniz, Maria do Amparo, Paulo de Carvalho, Fernando Tordo, Carlos Mendes, LaFeria, Maria do Céu Guerra, Dulce Pontes, Hermínia Silva, Teresa Salgueiro, António Calvário and José Cid, from different times, from different stages but all inside, adding to the individual map the coordinates of the human journey, to the collective whole and those who add make me cry, I already miss those who are still here and continue to go on stage, to record, to receive applause, because time is a villain that robs us of our physical presence and leaves us longing for those creators, those eternal souls, who do not die, as long as there is one of us who carries the others, who remembers the deeds and the works, let him strike a match in the heaven of eternity. I cry for all of them, for those who have gone, for those who will go, for those who will go, what a world so poor, without human gods who are compasses, who are encouragement and courage, what a lack they make, what a lack they dig in our chest, the figures, the artists, the men who create do not die and they are the ones who give me the courage to face the sunset of my life. With tears, yes, but with an emotion that clouds my eyes and I cannot be silent. I am one of those who carries memories of great people, great people, of these people who embrace people with attitudes, with words, with strength, with motivation, with light, with love, with the humanity dug into me, I am all of them and I rejoice in their immense works. How can we guide ourselves in the world without the lanterns of those who came before us? How can you forget these human workarounds? They are tears, they are, they are wet, because they are and they are words, but take a look at the works, go to the cinema, to the theater, see your mother courage, sing Pedro Barroso, go to the opera, sponsor an orchestra, look at your children, if you need examples. Humanity is inside, it does not die, and remembering is half of living. May the other half happen and may music remain, creativity may accompany all future generations, all the arts, may they never forget that those who forget history risk repeating mistakes. Let the body, stupidity, cruelty, vanity, fascism and the glory of selfishness die, but not our humanity, our truth. Because this is the family portrait, of the whole we have to present, when we go up. And as Pedro Barroso sings, where are there really beautiful people?