The Beautiful Things

I was noticing the beautiful things. Everything seemed to fall into place perfectly. There was balace, there was peace. And I believe I felt complete again - the storm had gone down to the sea, the fire that burned in my heart had died down.
Suddenly I was understanding the whys and the hows; I was looking at the world in ways I had never thought about.
They were always here, around me. These beautiful things, they never left me. But I didn't seem to notice them before.
I saw what was there, the way they belonged to their surroundings, though I also saw what wasn't. What was yet to be, the possibilities, the ideas, the future, the happiness. I saw us.
Where I seized to exist and I got lost, immersed in this ocean of beauty. The beauty of the world.
I saw them for what they were, simple, fragile, graceful and so incredibly familiar. They were joyous in their silent lives. They refused to give away their secrets, but they still told me plenty. They spoke of another life I had, a very old one - and I recognized the loveliness of all of it, I embraced it in me.
The open window let the light come in, it allowed life to swallow the darkness. Here, there's no room for chaos, or destruction or misery. It contains what is especial, and rare, and precious. And beautiful. Here there's room to contemplate how the ceiling is upside down and how that doesn't matter at all. Maybe the ceiling is where I'll walk from now on. Maybe all these shapes and forms, the edges and the shadows are just that. But they also contain something else. Something pure, something real. They enabled me to think like I had nothing to lose; they gave me clarity to see that maybe some things don't matter at all, that the way the world moves doesn't concern me. It shouldn't. It allowed me to forgive, perhaps even me. It allowed me to breathe.
Everything was very much alive, magical like. I closed my eyes, filled with the quietness, the utter peace that silenced the pain and despair. I closed my eyes and saw them all. The beautiful things.

What the water gave me

«One of these mornings (...) you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky»

You win over noise. You accomplish silence.
This precious, tragic, fatidic stilness you only get underwater. Utterly silent.
I was floating, drifting but not away. I stayed right there, in the moment. I looked at the far distant sky. It was so insanely blue, it hurt my eyes. It was so far away, so immense I was afraid it would fall over me and suddenly I felt small. I felt the nothingness of me, compared to the wide sky. I couldn't bear to be in the water any longer. I had to get out. I tried realizing the colours in the clouds, but it was hopeless.
When I'm inside, there's merely the sound of my breathing. And water. Water surrounding me, clear water all over. I see the beginning and it's end.
I am floating, like time doesn't move, like the earth doesn't spin. And all I see is the beauty of elegant trees gently dancing to the wind's waltz against the light blue pane. I see the trees, but what are they telling me? They move, they want to break free...It's summertime and they are alive. They speak to me - they are speaking of things I ever dreamed about, things that are so known, yet so unexpected. I'm feeling such quietness, such purity. There's no space for hurt here, for illusion. Reality, as bright as I ever saw it, is upon me and I embrace it with my arms open.
And what did the water really give me? Serenity I believe. It gave me a break from the atrocities of the world when I needed it, it allowed me to forget, it allowed me to know more. I floated free, the trees spoke to me, the birds flew over me, telling tales long forgotten. It saved me, when I didn't even know I needed rescue. It was a lighthouse to guide me where I don't recall. I don't know the way, I don't know what it was, but I know how it felt. It was home, somehow.

Dreams Journal

Every night I dream.
It may be confusing, a blur;
I might not really remember it,
Or it may be solidly explicit,
Reassuring. It lingers on me.
But I dream every night.
Each dawn brings another story,
Another little tale of my head.
All my thoughts, my ideas, my wishes,
They get re-arranged and dance around
In a strangely well rehearsed waltz.
It can become rather vivid, real.
It can be very vague aswell, a mere
Mist of what it could've been, a vast
Cloud of sensation, image and words
That confuse me. That get a hold of me.
Every night I dream. I wonder...

Picture of Us

«It was rare, I was there, I remember it, all too well..»

I remember it. I remember it as if months hadn't passed by, as if distance hadn't separated us.

For once, I was truly and utterly happy, adrift in pure joy of waking up, because that would bring me your face again. I did not have to hide out in day dreams - or night ones.

Treasuring every single moment like the rarest gem, I look back and realize those times are forever untouched, always to be thought of as heaven on my very earth.

If I close my eyes, I open them to see you looking at me, then; so peaceful, staring into the depths of my eyes, so openly, so purely, so freely and honestly that I could feel - no - I could see the love. I could sense the warmth of your love for me, through those heart-melting, heart-breakingly sweet honeyed blue eyes.

Right then, in those silent, still minutes, I knew. I knew we had each other, no matter what happened or what would come along. We were there, in one another and that was the only thing that counted. You were everything.

I got lost in you, diving into your core with every strength in me. It was the only thing I wanted. It still is...

My mind is a busy place, always filled with many ideas of what was, of what is and of what it will be. Sort of an unreal living, always torn between what I should want and what I actually do. But you are always my choice, it's always you. It has always been you.

And then I see this picture of us, so hopeful, so glad to have each second possible and available, desperatly trying to hold on to the past days, to what was left. Trying to hold on to each other, for we knew life would win the battle. But not the war.

I see this picture of us and I can't help to smile, to feel a sudden wave of memories wash over me like cleansing water. Flashbacks of those impossibly perfect moments fill me with chills and I know that what we have is special. That what we had was something uncommon, something incredibly rare. One of a kind.

And I know, in those moments, you were really happy. I was happy. We were happy, we existed. We are ever lasting...

Setting Forth

"So here's my hope, my tired soul...And here's my ticket, I want to go, home"

Com cada passo, a distância encurta. Com cada passada, mais confiança.
Caminho debaixo deste sol escaldante, já tão usual. Espero que o toque que deixa na minha pele perdure. Que deixe a sua marca em mim, para um dia recordar esta sensação confortante de sentir o corpo invadido de luz, do que é quente.
A brisa traz o som consigo, traz a leveza do que é novo, a seriedade do que já aqui há muito habita - ela brinca comigo. Traz o pó que paira no ar, este pó que é diferente de qualquer outro. Ele representa a vida testemunhada, a vida árdua de muita gente. A minha gente. Os sacrifícios cravados na alma, algo que nunca ninguém poderá devolver-lhes - uma lição demasiado bem aprendida, não pode ser esquecida; o que foi visto, não pode ser apagado.
Caminho no deserto, há quarenta dias e quarenta noites. Esta areia ardente debaixo dos meus pés fá-los estalar, as solas já sofridas. Nem sei onde comecei, nem sei quando. Limitei-me a andar, primeiro em frente, depois já sem saber por onde ia. Tudo o que vejo é precioso, tornou-se miragem, símbolo do que encontro por aqui, mesmo que já o tenha visto infinitamente. O tempo está preso, engarrafado num âmbar solar e sinto que nada se mexe, nada se transforma. Está tudo na mesma, como sempre acontece - nunca nada muda por aqui. Sou peregrina, na minha própria terra.
Torno-me pequena, porque consigo vislumbrar a viagem e em comparação eu não sou nada. Sou simplesmente estas pernas que se movem, uma atrás da outra. O coração move a vontade, a vontade move o corpo e eu tomo decisão nenhuma. Vou onde eles me levarem também. Pelo caminho, vou encontrando estes sítios onde deus não pára, onde a morte espreita porque a vida desistiu de aqui ficar. O solo é árido, mas já ninguém o pisa; a atmosfera é dolorosamente seca, porque os que ainda se atrevem a respirar são tão escassos...
Contemplo aquela hipótese tentadora, inocente, simples. Aquela contra a qual luto sempre, aquela que me assusta. A mais fácil. Será assim tão horrível? Será assim tão mau abraçar as raízes, aceitar o que sou? De onde sou? Entretenho-me com a possibilidade durante alguns momentos: no fundo do meu coração, há sempre um palpitar que não consegue negar a verdade. Que irá sempre sentir a chama, a pertença. Haverá sempre um local a que chamo casa.
Caminho pelo deserto, há quarenta dias e quarenta noites. Debaixo do sol escaldante, eu contra a brisa que arrasta o bom e o mau, o que eu aceito e o que eu poderia aprender a aceitar. Debaixo de mim, os meus pés descalços a lutar contra a areia ardente, relembrando-me da dor que todos temos de superar.
Hoje não falo em ir... Hoje, falo em ficar.

Remain Nameless

After the war. After the fear. After death.
They all stand and rise. They fall and rise again.
These people are long gone, but they are still here.
They remain, timeless. They remain, nameless?
They were once very much alive.
Walking the streets of the world, everywhere.
Witnesses to everything, they suffered. And laughed, I hope.
Only to more chaos, more obliterating rage.
What they called home, shattered to pieces.
Beauty, vanished. Life, destroyed. Dreams, crushed.
But not forever. The golden days would return.
I see them and they are alive. They are alive to me.
It is like nothing ever changed. Time stopped.
They didn't - couldn't - know what the years would bring.
How precious the knowledge of daily affairs would become.
Face upon face, building after building, I see it all.
The majestic river, the tower, the arch. They still live.
And they will never be forgotten in oblivion again.



London, 1927