O malabarismo inflexível

Temos necessidades.
As vezes são obsessões, as vezes são tão brandas ou protegidas que nem parecem necessidades, mas temos, creio eu, que todos.
Não falo das físicas, essas é CLARO que todos temos, mas emocionais/relacionais/egóicas/whatever você quiser chamar.
Tem aqueles que fingem que são imunes a isso, sabe, os que tem necessidade de parecer independente/durão(ona)/desencanada.
Pra mim esses são os que menos conseguem lidar com sua necessidade, como diz o povo: "o primeiro passo é admitir" e não admitir suas necessidades é um salto para trás no sentido de satisfazê-las.
Aquele que sabe que tem algo que precisa, que quer, mesmo não podendo ter, consegue jogar com essa necessidade; pode se semi-satisfazer com algo similar, com algo diferente ou mesmo com o reconhecimento que outros podem dar às suas necessidades. Agora toco num ponto importante: aquele que não admiti sua necessidade não consegue/quer/pode ou/e admitir a necessidade do outro.

Que tal a gente brincar de se importar?

Make a Wish...

A ladybug landed on me

I was walking this morning on a viaduct, over a railroad. It was a gray viaduct, long-gray-fast viaduct, the ones you just cross, which does not count, otherwise badly.
Drowsiness for the non-slept night, for the three days in a row of parties and dreams and lives and memories and death (even if these words are merely synonyms). A sunny Sunday, after all, I mean, if the gray viaduct was not there.
I was not walking, it was much less, something that is not meaningfull enough to be mentioned more than the wide open wall-toilet I've so many times used the party last night, and the night before and the night before.
Still, a ladybug landed on me.

First I thought it was a fly, a bug, something stinky, probably poisonous, but then again, don't we always think like that? It flew by my side, as if a lover (which made me think it could be a mosquito), but so I remembered of the gray viaduct and on it there can not be love, not even from a mosquito.
For reasons such as the heavy luggage I was carrying, the weakness from the previous days (which made me wish for a company, even from a mosquito) I let that hideous bug land on me.
It turned out it was not that hideous, as not-hideous it could be on that large sunny viaduct.

A ladybug landed on me.
I didn't even stop, maybe for the surprise for not being expecting that, the reflex to drive my fingers to my green shirt and flick the bug from my shirt was faster than my skill to interpretate that it was more than a bug, it was (is) a lady.
It was the very simbol of luck in that unlucky morning and place and years.
Since I've flick it away and did not stop, someone who might had seen that unexpected encounter might have thought I was really cold toward it, but then again here I am writting how a lady has changed my morning for the very fast three seconds we've met, loved, fought, hoped and died. Even if I'm writting only to prove to someone who has (not) seen it I'm not that bad.
It made me think how things are like this, aren't they?Isn't it really hard to notice when luck land on you for the speed and rarity it happens? And when it does happen, shouldn't we not stop? For the lady has flown away but the gray viaduct in the sunny Sunday morning remains, shaking unfairly not for the bugs who miraculously fly over it, landing on distracted people, but for the trucks and buses and cars and the trains that passes beneath it, fast and going both ways. Shaking but as eternal as brute, as heavy as ugly, as glorious as gray.

And this is another thing that happens, that lady crossed my path momentaniously and has reached a very profund level of meaning to me; ladies do that to us, man and brute viaducts, still, we try not to shake, and when we do we blame the trucks.
Even if only for today, that ladybug is the love of my life, for I do not think I'll be able of stop thininkg of her, the black spots on her red back, imagine what would've happened if I've seen her eyes, round and black as I can only imagine and dream, and even if only for today I can never stop talking about her and how my shirt felt her tiny legs and told me they were many and pretty as could only belong to a lady and a bug.

I was ran over by green

It was a green morning. The very first thing I can remember today is the green, the shelter, I was under beyond the green ocean and then I went away, I flew, no point in doing so but the random reason we fly: life.
And life has these funny things, as green turn gray as easily as it does, but green and gray are just colors and to fly is much larger than colors so, why stop flying?
So there I was, being me, flying in the gray bright earlyness of the day, and when it happens people often ask "where are you flying to?" (I had an ant who used to ask me that all the time), as if to fly could only be intransitive, not an action, not a dream and a way of life and the paradise and doom of a little existence, but by "little" I mean an existence smaller than gray; indubitably gray. Not a happy nor interesting nor smart nor sexy gray.
Now thinking of it, gray isn't that large, I'm talking about some existence, precisely that amount of "large-littleness", uncountable.
It was then that the green came, just like the gray but green, me, on the other hand, very different from the both of them. I got happy by the sight of the green, a glimpse of the color I was surrounded that very same earlyness, few days ago and I remembered how happy I was that earlyness (earlier than the one of the second green), someone was with me back there. Someone with a hard shell and an expression of a bad someone. But was it? Because sometimes we think things are what they just look they are and I think that is because the only thing we can say about things is what they look like, and this second existence looked like green but it mustn't be for it was very different from the other green and green must all be the same for its existence is ridiculously little for it to change, and that other green had sheltered me while this has shattered me.
I was ran over by green.

First I thought this was a fake-green or that it was holding me, but then it hurt, it did not stop, kept moving over me, trying to shatter my shell; so fool, naive.
For a second there I stood, I stood still anyway, or was it a day?For no longer than from a week to two years, that's for sure, I think...
But when that life ended and I flew away, because that's what we should do and I think the few who tryed not to do so were not happy but honest to themselves (and is that really desirable?).
Then it occurred to me that the fake-green was only doing that for it thought it was bigger and stronger than me. Who has told it that?
Did I?Or the same way I thought the hard-shelled-bad-faced previous lover was bad the same way the fake-green thought I was smaller and more fragile?
It doesn't matter now, I flew away and know better than to keep thinking of the fake-green, I've learned how to fly centuries ago, haven't I?
So I fly to gray and out of the blue (and the green) I was far away and it was still early that day, just a few years later.

Now, coming to think, that green must be real.

Morrer ou matar

Alguém nunca se deparou com esse dilema?
Hoje li uma frase de D.H. Lawrence que falava sobre amor, dizendo que algo que era pra ser um processo transformamos em um fim. E isso pra mim faz mais sentido do que o próprio ar entrando em meus pulmões ou a sensação das costas encostadas na parede gelada, como conviver com o "não-amor" uma pessoa que tem uma pretensa devoção de toda a vida ao amor?
Pretensioso, eu sei, mas qual o problema disso?
Anyway, não é sobre isso que quero discutir, venho falar de morte: morrida ou matada.
Quando será que começa? De acordo com Freud no Complexo de Édipo, quando o primeiro amor se torna impossível, então matamos nosso Narciso. Matamos ou ele morre?
De qualquer forma, penso que em situações posteriores tenhamos novamente esse dilema, ainda mais se fizermos do amor nosso "objetivo". Aos poucos matamos partes insustentáveis ou deixamos elas morrer. Um problema é carregar cadáveres, mas não o único.
Agora, depois de um tempo, quando criamos a consciência de que a morte vem, como abraçar a vida?Que inveja eu tenho dos que não temem a morte.
Dizem que é mehor amar e perder do que nunca amar at all...penso se quem disse isso já amou, por mais clichê que essa indagação seja.
(Esse deve ser o post mais esquizo que já escrevi...)