21 de fevereiro de 2011

What imprint?

What imprint does one leave in life? What will be there when there is no one there to mourn us?
We are so great and so full of ourselves. Piles of nothing are we. We go through therapy so they tell us how great and unique, so special we are. We are brought up to believe in our greatness and not to let anyone tell us otherwise. We are indeed great and we think we are even greater than that. We are. And yet we are not.
We have children that will die.
We write books that will not be read through the eons of Time.
We plant trees that will grow anymous.
We try to think we make a difference or that the world is a better place because of us. It may even be true. It is most certainly true. I am convinced of that. But what is the worth in all of that? Why are we trying so hard? Why is it always so hard to try?
The allure of the abyss.
The comfort of nothingness.
The sweet temptation of dumness.
Hope is a killer. The agony of it. The trickster. The hoax.
What will be there when we are no longer there?
You think you have it all. And you do. You do have it all come to think of it. What more do you want? What else can you possibly want? What is that more that you want? Will there ever be an enough? But you have nothing. You have fabrications of what you think you have. You have little bits and pieces that amount to nothing. You think what you want is so simple. So absurdly simple. Well, is it?
And now you write this and it makes no sense. Simply because you wrote it it makes no sense. Just no longer. Or just not now. You read the stupid words and they do not mean you. You read the really stupid words and you look down on them as a bad text of a worse writer. Or then, because you wrote them, you got the distance (to go the distance and walk the line)...

6 comentários:

antonio - o implume disse...

Está em inglês...

Ältere Leute disse...

Oh goodness! What a mood!Does it have to do with your previous post?

Quint disse...

You know I always liked much more reading you in English.
Not that we can't read you in Portuguese, but because this is the Blonde I first knew and that one day came knocking on my door.
Maybe life isn't meant to be or make any sense, maybe it's just here and now to be lived. Maybe we should wake up every morning and make the best of it. Try listening to the birds singing while the suns wakes or grab a beer as old and dead Jim sang.
I don't know and I'm no theraphist but you know me and you know how to reach.
I'm not around but I'm always there. Not for all but for those whom are special.

By the way: the books arrived. That "amazon" really works.
You have a point there!

zana dias disse...

"Imprint" is not a thing of this world, so why even think about it?

Pedro disse...

the words I write are not me
as the thoughts I have are not me
as the ways I feel are not me
as all things said are not me

I'm the wind
I'm the cold
I'm the warmth
I'm the soul

I'm the way
I am
some way
to be
I am
what I am
a way
to be me

redonda disse...

Cheguei aqui seguind o link do Crónicas do Rochedo.
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