queria poder escrever sem que fosse tão difícil não te mencionar
nem pensar em você e te ter como motivo e inspiração
mas olha bem pra mim e vê se eu consigo? não baby, quem me dera!
isso me faz pensar o que seria de mim se você não tivesse entrado em minha vida e bagunçado tudo de uma só vez
e eu tivesse que ir colocando tudo em ordem em forma de texto, como se escrever arrumasse também o caos que se tornou minha vida
meu amigo costuma falar que os relacionamentos frustrados, e na maioria os que terminam em decepções, são os que nos rendem os melhores textos
mas ontem fui questionada sobre meus relacionamentos, e fiquei me perguntando: que relacionamentos?
nada ficou, nem durou, só marcou
e conclui que talvez relacionamentos não são sobre duas pessoas, e sim sobre dois corações que quando se tocam, se eternizam
talvez seja por isso que escrevo tanto sobre você, e sobre o nós que nunca existiu
você se eternizou em mim, baby, e eu não consigo me desfazer de você
por mais que eu tente arrumar minha vida em parágrafos
em cada oração eu te cito, e te sinto.
I never lived near the airport.
In fact I live an hour away from it.
I live in a building
right in the middle of a jungle.
But yet I can still see the stars if I tilt my head upwards.
I can also see planes.
Doesn't matter where they are going,
north, east, west or even my way.
I never liked planes,
ever since I started flying ten years ago.
I never liked the uncomfortable seats,
the long duration
even if it was only for a couple of hours,
or the small space for my legs,
or even for my food.
I’m scared of heights but
the concept of a machine flying thousand of miles
above the ground
didn't.
The next plane I hopped on might
very well crash for all I know.
But I like to have a little faith.
Every time I looked at these planes,
I get a little bit sad.
Some of these planes are taking people
to their new lives.
They could be starting over in a new country or
getting married there.
Or even just a holiday that
could possibly change their lives.
Me? I’m stuck here.
I never had the the opportunity to even think
about going somewhere that would change my life.
Over the course of last year,
something changed, for the better.
Now when I look at planes, I smile.
Because I know the next time I get on a plane,
I’m leaving everything behind and changing my life.
In less than 100 days, I’ll be one of those people
on planes, ready for a fresh start
at a new life.
In that moment, they remain: young and untouchable, under the summer sun.
It is the first time they meet, where a shutter flutters amongst the rumbling and chatter, under the blistering heat and golden sunlight. In a group of strangers, they did not know each other any more than the nervous smiles on each other's faces, only barely concealing the excitement that shone in the glint of their eyes. Like the sunshine and heat on that summer day, their bond swelled as often as it seemed to disappear behind the chill and clouds.
Through each flutter of the shutter, their lives carried them through different lenses, slowly moving across different ends of a steadily widening road. Yet hanging on the clothes line that draped along the walls of the darkroom, pictures of them looking off to the side, just past the camera lens, are hung side by side, as though they were looking for a once stranger across the road.
It is the first time they truly see one another, when the sounds of shutters fluttering is drowned by distance and the pouring rain. If you squinted, you'll be able to make out two shadows in the distance, highlighted by the dull streetlights that hung lazily overhead. The umbrella of lights that danced like fireflies, enveloped the sounds of the tinkling of glasses, and the waves of laughter; contrasted in atmosphere to the rainy autumn night beyond the envelope, where two people stood under the somber clouds that cried for them, as their greatest desires and fears are realised before their eyes. And just like the drops of rain that fell around them, they built their walls higher with glass bricks to match. The warmth of celebration under the fireflies, could not cut the misty chill that obscured the two shadows in the distance.
Through each picture evidenced their existence, of each other and to each other, if not for themselves, then to the world. Without them and without their memories it is as though a dream had come and gone with the fog of the morning. With each blink of an eye and each object coming into focus, the dream they shared through every picture is placed at the back of the cabinet in silk ribbons and dust. The imprint on the pillows and mattresses slowly rise in the absence of its occupant, and the shadow of what they were moulded back into place as the sun streamed into the windows as quickly as it faded.
It is the last time they meet one another, in different times and different places. With the echoes of shutters rustling through their hands, and time slipping gently through their fingers into pits of coal and timber, no long bitter or cold, nor covered in silk or dust. Carefully and carelessly, they fell into the embers of the charcoal that rattled against the metal barrel, shivering in the brisk wind being carried across the river and through the underbelly of the bridge; while echoing the crackling of splitting timber, muffled by thick black smoke & chaos of shattering glass and the moaning of metal that reverberated through the corridors & windows.
Yet resting idly in the back of the darkroom, in the corner where the clothes line used to hang loosely above the cluttered work bench, the first photograph of them together leans precariously against the chipped wallpaper, threatening to slip under the cabinet by a single brush of movement. In that moment, they remain: young and untouchable, under the summer sun.
Text12 / T12 2015 // with thenineteenthsecond ; a movement that encourages participants to write a short story once a month based on a theme, for 12 months and compile them as a collection of short stories, encouraging writing and written expression throughout the year.
I'd like to start by saying how terribly wrong you were about burning. We burnt our desires and sent them to the sky and earth as smoke and ash, a clash of black, wisps of smoke against white, fine, powder, yet neither gave us what we wanted.
It was no different when we sent the ash to sea to swim across the abyss and eventually join the sandy bed at the bottom, or to be carried away into the wind in search for new lands as it barrelled by and around us, the way life just seemed to carry on whenever we stood still. Nor did the smoke linger as it curled into pockets of its lighter counterparts before they disappear beyond our sights,the same way time seemed so slow and so fast at the same time, before we knew it, it was gone. But at least we held hands and savoured it, knowing that you could be wrong about burning our desires, and holding on as the fire licked at our clothes and slowly kissed our skin.
The fire did not ease the pain, it in fact made it worse. Not often are pomegranates held over fire, with its shell and seeds as they were stripped off their shrubs, yet you held my wrist over the flame to burn their shells until they cracked. It hurt to slowly shrivel and collapse in brittleness as the heat drained and snapped each crack into merging, and yet you were relentless, amidst the darkening of its shell and its fracture.
You cracked open the shells, and let the fire illuminate the glossy seeds within, an oozing trophy of your resolve, with my hands and wrists hot and red from the heat and your grip. With each bite of sweetness always mixed with a punch of sour reminded me of how the ratios were never the same, just always present in different proportions; yet you were always sour, despite trying to convince me that each bite would always be sweeter and sweeter.
You were right about one thing though. The living keep on living. And I am sure you would be comforted by the fact that indeed, life went on without you, though I wish everyday that you were here to live it with me.
Thank you for breaking the shells of my pomegranates for me, and showing me that the seeds aren't just seeds but also shine like jewels in the light. Like the way you gave singular parts of you to everyone you met, just so they could see the light that a single seed like them could bring, and to give theirs in return for planting. With each seed I grind between my teeth, I'll think of you with a smile as red as your lips were.
We met and parted under a tree of red baubles, starting with the tallest we had ever seen, and ended with the smallest which we failed to notice, like time. It is almost as if we had grown, and the shrubs had forgotten that the sun shines brightest above the canopies, and forgot that we were not only wrong but also, undeniably right.
So as these ashes slip between my fingertips, and I let every element take parts of you away from me, it feels like every moment we held hands standing amidst the trees, shore and mountain: fleeting and bleeding.
We - I - miss you very much.
X
Text12 / T12 2015 // with thenineteenthsecond ; a movement that encourages participants to write a short story once a month based on a theme, for 12 months and compile them as a collection of short stories, encouraging writing and written expression throughout the year.
