There he is sitting in the tube, Netsky the late night presence pounding the whole way to the bar, at about the same time he began to think about going there for a beer. In fact, he has finished it. Maybe he will have a second one, he wonders, as he happily heads to the tube station, after the third. There are one hundred students, sitting not far from him, not completely awake but awake enough to take some notes on what is being explained, awake enough due to the hanging earphones while he sips coffee between a bright conversation. Did he listen the whole song? Can’t really tell. What matters is: Did he enjoy the conversation? Was the coffee cold? Or even had one? This he is wondering on his way home from a tiring lab’s class. According to chemistry alcohol is a solution, so to the bar he heads, checking his facebook, while asking for a beer. The music there is good, ‘so was the company’ plays on his mind with ‘Puppy’. Time seems to be moving fast, as indeed it is, except when he is on that class. Someone calls his name, he goes for a coffee for a couple of hours before studying a bit, or a few beats from the song on the bar. An exam tomorrow, a few hours without closing his eyes tonight. Another coffee is welcomed, maybe next week he will visit is hometown. Students fill the tube on his way to uni, another class. Before the last stop he realizes, can’t really remember when he last slept, he thinks rubbing his eyes and getting ready for the organic chemistry class. And before understanding why, there he is again, sitting in the tube.
Uma das grandes vantagens de ser escritora é saber sempre como procurar o que sentimos. Algo que se revela necessário no processo da escrita. Metermos as mãos dentro de nós e retirarmos para o papel, aquilo que não nos deixa viver, para que na arte viva.
Como se todas as emoções rolassem em canalizações. As minhas andam sempre rotas. E eu não sou canalizadora. Mas quando algo pinga em coração duro, tanto bate até que fura. E lá tenho de procurar a torneira certa a fechar. Questiono. E quase sem me aperceber lá desaperto memórias ainda frouxas, mesmo que o tempo já se tenha encarregado das enferrujar. Entupidas estas duas torneiras que dizem espelhar a alma, nunca ficam. Palpo cano a cano. Para descobrir qual desagua a mágoa desta vez. Mas eles estão todos ligados, e eu perco-me. Deixo-me perder a contar buraquinhos e goteiras, mexendo-lhes, ampliando-os. E só depois, remendando-os. E mais não há dedos para tanto furo. Mas eu não sou canalizadora. E não tarda eles voltam a rebentar. A gotejar, a chatear. Água mole em pedra dura. Felizmente, a infelicidade e a falta de jeito são as ferramentas perfeitas para uma escritora. Que inundação se daria, se me soubesse amanhar.
Life is no more than a flame
As a flock of birds fly away during winter
He migrated with the army, leaving her in the nest
The moon her presence light
‘Does she remember Piccadilly? Lights’
through the window
Rain shooting before his eyes
The ring bell
As the moon stands for the night sky
Her true colours light his darkest times
As fragile as branches on a storm
She opens the door
‘The bus. The Zara’s dress. Red high-heels’
A stare of pity
the traditional words
As sunflowers turn towards the sun
His mind doesn’t get her out of sight
Wearing the black dress
from the first encounter
In the grave
In her heart