domingo, 24 de maio de 2015

about louie

she smiles. it's the best "hi" you are going to get. it isn't a bright smile, though. it is full of bitter, disbelief, and for some reason guilt. she is smiling like someone would say goodbye or i'm sorry.

she is just standing there. of course she was waiting for you... she's got that big sister thing that makes the others spill their guts. they must have told her you were on your way.

she doesn't move or gesture in anyway. you feel like you're staring into an animal eyes - they're careful, angry, hurt and so scared. so scary.

you take a look around. the stone room has a yellow light coming from somewhere, but it doesn't make it any less dark.

- i lit it. so you could see. but you won't find any candles - her voice is surprisingly high-pitched, yet harsh and dragged. you know why. you know it's 'cause it's hard to talk, not to stutter, not to overflood the room with her insides, not to fear judgment.

you nod. she is hugging a book in her arms, a little too tight. it's an old, leather covered, big book. the girl, on the other hand, is short. shorter than you'd think, knowing how much power she has coming out of her pores.

her hair is very black, long and straight, with bangs that give her a younger look. her hair is messy, though, you'd bet she spent the night awake and didn't bother combing before leaving in the morning.

her skin is the kind of white that makes you worried. and you can spot purple bruises on her wrists and collar bone... were they self inflicted?

- i have a few questions - you say in a low voice. the situation is weird and intimidating... knowing yourself, after all, was no easy trick - they might bother you, but i'd like you to make an effort...

- fine - she is rude. and you hold a little laughter. of course she is rude, you think, she wants to sound as wild as she feels.

- well... have a sit - and at that moment a table and two chairs appear between you two. and immediately you regret it... you know that table, you both do. it's the one where all the others locked her in when she became too dangerous for herself.

she backs away, the look in her face makes you wonder if she is about to attack you or run away. but she stands still, rubbing her wrists... the place where the cuffs digged into her skin.

- i think i'd rather stand.

- why don't we.. ? - you gesture to the other side of the room. you both sit across from each other, on the floor. - the first question i got for you is related to responsibility.

she crosses her legs and lay the book there. the school uniform is dark blue and white, and you wonder if she's worried about getting it dirty.

- why do you entitle yourself the big sister?

she rolls her eyes. you raise an eyebrow. she is a real teen.

- i don't entitle myself anything. they do. i just do what i have to do.

- and what is that? what do you have to do?

everything is silent for a sec. you almost think she won't asnwer.  but then you see it... she's trying.

- i have to make sure they are ok.

- why? ok from what?

- ... because that's the way i know how to keep who i care about close. and probably from myself... because i manage to ruin everything, anyway.

- that does not make sense.

- doesn't it? i am so messed up that anyone close to me just gets infected... and gets in danger. and hurt.

- so why do you keep them around? if you care about them?

she looks at you with such pain in her eyes that you regret saying it. you regret every word. it starts hurting you too.

- because i can't stand it alone - her voice cracks at the end. she really is trying.

- why do you think you are so messed up?

she took a second. you're sure she thought about this before, but for some reason explaining was... hard.

- ... you have to ask?

- yes i do. i really do.

- why? 'cause you think you got to build yourself up again and there is some part of me that belongs to you? well guess what? i am nothing good or savable. so you can just leave me alone and be done with it.

- ... louie, please.

she closes her eyes for a second. and breathes. when she comes back, it's cold and focused, like she was finding strength from speaking without any attachment.

- i am the one who can't live a normal life. i screamed my way through sleep my entire childhood. and then i grew up and it didn't got better... they say it's gonna get easier, that life changes and everything changes along. and you know what? the feeling is still the same... i am still that kid with ghosts in her room making her see things. and no one comes to send them away when i scream.

- why don't you send them away yourself, louie?

the question did two things: both pissed her off and made her wonder.

- is that what you do nowdays? you send them away yourself? - it was an honest question.

- the ones i don't want to talk to, yes. the ones i do, i listen to. i can teach you how.

you can hear her heart from across her chest, clothes and the space that separated you two. but you knew what came next.

- no. fear is all i have to keep going.

you nod. you can't say you're not disappointed. neither that you are surprised.

- one last question... why is it that you think you can't do it alone, in life? why do you need people to need you?

she smiled again. that same sorrowful smile. but this time with a bit of fun.

- i don't want my life to be just hate. and i hate myself.

you look at her face and you are sure you're looking at a stranger's face. it's you, but missing parts.

- it's gonna get better, louie.

and you both laugh. what a crappy promise.

sexta-feira, 22 de maio de 2015

about the visit

she told me to go and create stories like i was stuck in time, even though she was the one stuck in a room. funny thing, though, she was also the one that knew how to share stories.

she brought us up to date, since the last time i had seen her, at the other hospital. how she got released and went home on a uber, only to be left at the bottom of a gigantic stair without being able to walk. at that moment she climbed her ass off and cried like a child. months were bad. her muscles screamed in pain at such a level that they had to take her to the hospital again, this time another one, closer to her home and far from the careless doctors she had met.

months were still bad. no one knows where anything comes from and her heart literally shatters. they give her morphine, they give her rivotril and at the end of the day she puts on a smile and explain different versions of the same story to anyone that wants to listen.

i could feel her kind of quiet. like a scream that died at the throat, hoarse. i can feel the kind of calm that the medicines bring and the painful clarity she thinks she has, and all that lies underneath that... the despair, the fear, the anxiety... and the hint of thrill. now that is a much bigger problem she will probably never overcome, and that will probably take her down under... the love for the misery. the appreciation for the pain and the notion that is beautiful to be broken.

i see all that and i can't really look away. and maybe i should... maybe i should tell her all about my new job, about the joy and sadness of failing at everything... but at some level i understand that she is right. i have to find my own story again. i have to remember who i am and be that... before all my loudness becomes the same desperate quiet i hear from her.

quinta-feira, 21 de maio de 2015

about sort drame

there is this girl tucked in the middle of book shelfs, at the great library. she gathered a pile of hardcovers in front of her, but she's only paying attention to one, in her lap, the others are a fort she built to keep herself safe from the world, a bigger fort than the shelves itself.

two things you can't help but notice about her... the eyes, wide, big and glittery, like an overexcited child, and her hands, all marked in colors. the eyes didn't run in the family, neither did being a leftie, but those two things said so much about this girl that they might as well find in her life codification.

the eyes were the open gate to her curiosity, one of the forces that centered her whole being. but this curiosity of hers came from a funny place in her head, the part of herself that craved for an answer deeper than the boring, dull, sad life she saw around her. with those eyes she saw dreams, dragons, crossed lovers, unspoken magic and many impossible things being born and killed all around. with those eyes she imagined, she created, and above all, she colored everything.

the hands were hands of an anxious girl. she couldn't work in the same speed as the time, so she made things happen in the spares. she would write stories, loose words, draw faces, eyes, creatures, people and lovely scary stuff... but she was, indeed, a leftie, and while she worked her hands would cover all the things she had already gone through, and all those experiences would leave her marked with colors. bright colors, dark colors, mixed colors, colors...

you shouldn't try to sneak around, though, for she wouldn't know how to appreciate sudden company. she climbed to the moon and saw stars so up close that human kind just was not the same anymore. she too, was a bit less human. we all became scary, giant and threatening for someone who was only used to characters and fairy tales. 

but sometimes she looks away from that book. sometimes she winds around for a couple of eyes that might remind her of something she loves. in this moment she holds tight, like gravity was a string between them, and she hopes for her magic and impossible things. she hopes they all collide. 

so far they didn't and she wonders why. maybe it was the books. maybe the eyes, maybe the moon and maybe the lies... but she never stopped to wonder why she needed all that. 

terça-feira, 28 de abril de 2015

about loud silences

i think most of what worries me comes from silence. from delicate reactions to brutal things. from smiles that never reach the eyes.

you can feel it right there, like a shadow or a cloud. like something you only pay attention to when you stand still for long. 

cause when you stop, then all the details matter. all the things that can’t catch up to you when you’re moving. life matters, death matters, love matters, sorrow matters, guilt matters… the silence matters.

so much matters that i, for once, can’t understand the delicate reactions to brutal things. but i hold the smile that don’t meet the eyes and i offer a hand, that won’t reach the heart… cause i can hear the loudness of your silence. and that i get.

sexta-feira, 20 de fevereiro de 2015

Sobre não-diálogos

Você quebra em 892 partes e se espalha pela sala. Eu digo "don't let them see you break" e passo as mãos pelos seus cabelos.

Ele pegou seu ódio e o engoliu. de.glu.tiu. Mas antes de chegar ao estômago já era uma massa negra e purulenta. Coisas de pesadelos que a gente esquece ao acordar.

Quando viu a luz do dia de novo já tinha coletado palavras o bastante para traduzir o processo em dor.

Você viu a onda vindo, mas não correu. Acho que você espera pelas ondas, se alimenta delas, transforma-as em histórias que mantém as pessoas por perto, regadas de vinho e lágrimas.

E você disse "I was the one to suffer here". E foi, mesmo.