Of the unfathomable mysteries of life
My brother
This note serves to give you an account of my feelings, of the pain that I need to be shared, of the inexhaustible fatigue of these spaces, where my mother and I are hostages, cloistered, marginalized, like two personas non gratas. The external community is not friendly. Not even mild, like the one we have had all our lives. I mean the three of them, me, you and the mother. But your mother, her neighbors, those who were close to her, there are few left, scattered and close to you, others wander through the celestial spheres, and if here they were indigestible to civil society, carrying stigmas and labels, to whom they pointed fingers and customs, on the higher plane they are highly esteemed. I look for a way to fight all the evils with loose conversations, sometimes serious, where the mother tells me another episode of her life, with the father, without the father, or less serious conversations, where she also predicts an inhuman future for those who remain of our generation. From other generations. Who fears for his grandchildren, who is frightened by the news of fatal changes, by the uninstructive debates of current politics. His mother always liked political debates, exchanges of pennants, humor and life. And in spite of everything, even now, when she rises with the pains of joints and bones, from an enviable skeleton to the anorexics, she continues to smile, to talk to the cats perched on her window, when I open it wide, to the green ones opposite. Our friends are these trees that grow without order, the grass that does not allow us to see a piece of land, the cats and dogs that greet us and always seem to me thirsty for our attention and love. These are the only friends we need. God, in his immensity and wisdom, has placed perfect neighbors within the perimeter demarcating the approach of inhumans.
This note serves to give you an account of my feelings, of the pain that I need to be shared, of the inexhaustible fatigue of these spaces, where my mother and I are hostages, cloistered, marginalized, like two personas non gratas. The external community is not friendly. Not even mild, like the one we have had all our lives. I mean the three of them, me, you and the mother. But your mother, her neighbors, those who were close to her, there are few left, scattered and close to you, others wander through the celestial spheres, and if here they were indigestible to civil society, carrying stigmas and labels, to whom they pointed fingers and customs, on the higher plane they are highly esteemed. I look for a way to fight all the evils with loose conversations, sometimes serious, where the mother tells me another episode of her life, with the father, without the father, or less serious conversations, where she also predicts an inhuman future for those who remain of our generation. From other generations. Who fears for his grandchildren, who is frightened by the news of fatal changes, by the uninstructive debates of current politics. His mother always liked political debates, exchanges of pennants, humor and life. And in spite of everything, even now, when she rises with the pains of joints and bones, from an enviable skeleton to the anorexics, she continues to smile, to talk to the cats perched on her window, when I open it wide, to the green ones opposite. Our friends are these trees that grow without order, the grass that does not allow us to see a piece of land, the cats and dogs that greet us and always seem to me thirsty for our attention and love. These are the only friends we need. God, in his immensity and wisdom, has placed perfect neighbors within the perimeter demarcating the approach of inhumans.
I postpone tasks, postponing obligations or, then, I am the one to invent that they are obligations, in addition to this, to be alive and lucid, aware at all times, of the approach of that storm that will tear out my blood, fatigue and sadness that I try to live alone, in the bedroom, or else, next to the trees in bloom. The skies are now entrenched with heavy clouds, the dogs of the neighborhood bark at the wind and at the movements of our gate or the neighbor's gate, believing that they are soldiers obliged to territorially defend their owners against all weather adversities. I stand here to see, like the rabbit bewitched by the serpent, the dust accumulating on the windowsills, the clouds pretending to be large animals, the beauty and perfection of the undulation of the windswept leaves above the tank. My room has been the cabin, where I hide, to see the lights and the natural projectors of the sky give prominence to the whole outside me. Inside, as you know, there are so many ghosts without a stage, without a name, with no way to emigrate to other affections and hearts. I am an outcast and I guess that I will be able to see this same adjective in which I fit live and in color. I want to leave. And I'm going to pick up Maria do Rosário Pedreira, mother, I want to leave, but I don't want her to leave. I don't know how to see her leave. Do you know? Are you prepared to do it? And I can't hug you, but I can feel your tears rolling down your eyes, turning into drops on your nose and sobs that you try to tame in your glottis. You won't make it. You will fall like me, you will have to let go like me, the trapped pain of all years, this pain of pretending not to hurt, of wanting all our affective ghosts to hold our hands before the precipice so often announced that she too will have to become a ghost. Agony, bitterness, mourning, orphanhood are all so heavy, words that express incoherence and finitude. And because love does not end, it does not end, I foresee a continuous pain that we cannot euthanize. We will have to learn to let go and open our hearts again, so that we do not get even sicker Do you remember when a cat or a dog died for us? That we spent hours waiting for them to be resurrected by miracle? Well, what has to resurrect in us is a light heart, like a bird's feather, like a free flight, so that our experiences can receive the sun in homeopathic doses and with an interval of pause, the processes that we will have to live. We are all birds in migratory waves, we are all bears in temporary hibernation processes. Everything is temporary. It seems to me that, as an older sister, I will have to continue to tell you that even when those who leave leave, nothing is in vain, that we have roots of wind and that, one day, the time will also come to us, to extirpate ourselves. At that time, I imagine, in our own definitive flight is when we free ourselves from all sorrows and other heavy, sterile words that only produce pain with different nomenclature.
I look at the books and travel through the titles. Like an autistic person, surrendering to my world, where only ghosts of children who, despite their sorrows, dared to laugh, to build buildings and castles. Neither of them learned to swim. None of us learned to lose. My dear, there will come the time when both of us, holding hands or each one in Plato's cave, will caress the golden thread of light and peace, because we have shadows in abundance. And who knows, in a spring, without fear, we will talk about everything and everyone who, having left, stayed. I'm very tired. But I love you very much, yesterday today and always, in each of the verb tenses that you want to conjugate. Forgive me for this bad temper of forcing us to deal with everything, serious and less pleasant conversations, of having this Virgo mania that I no longer recognize in you, but a lot in me, of organizing even the pains and how to live them. Antero, I want to see the sea.
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