crônicashoras…

finding his own steps, came to the man, in a chain of events, the bearing: guidance and pain. and the surrounding blindness, pitch-bright as it is the excess of lucidity, starts to ink. as it was to bow to heaven and seize on the grace from whatever traces of joy could the man bind himself to, looking down and still finding white-light led nowhere. thus, among us, there it was, a constant cycle, walking in circles and dizziness asked him to stop. it was quite easy to just sense and, oh how good it is muscle memory, for he knew so dearly where to jump, counted down steps to move forward without a single reasonable doubt.

the man was indeed poor in judgement. deemed loathsome in self-assurance and doubtful, he could hardly ever notice how the clock ticks faster as the hours pass by. in time, he could not get there in time. and the cycles, circles of passion, a circus of wondering sullenly persisted in drawing its own pace.

the choice of what path shall a man follow, when set in terms of whether is a path of his own or one said to be his, does not grasp the hurtful dilemma, such as it is, for there is never just one question, there is never just an ‘us-or-them’. not answering an order disguised as kind request seems to burst out other questions, self-amusing wonderings – for that matter – of what it means to him to be one ['don't you know what you are, boy? a girl, maybe...']and what does this kind request mean ['what kind of question is that? can i be both?']. they are, as such, reflexes of the strange bittersweet aftertaste that comes with the incessant joys of so many choices that always end up falling into the same antagonistic fates: you lose, you win.

a reasonable moment for jumping to a new track do exist, nevertheless. one cannot stop walking to wear new shoes. he must avoid to lose balance – avoid to fall, to stay and die. and he did not stop. but he slowed down, utterly undecided. as the awe towards the great sounds of new melodies recalled him of the dreamt possibility of a contradiction in fate, to subvert choices and win [' what a full load of crap! you fear to live!'], he bowed and seized joy after joy.

time crashed on him. the clock began to meet him so very often. his seconds just went by twice, three times, as fast ['look up, look up!']. walking slower than the track, as time began to make its way through the pace inside the circus of wondering, maimed the man. simple muscle memory would not respond anymore, and he began to fell where before he knew so dearly when to jump ['look up, look up!'].

throughout all this cycles, whether out of sheer kindness of heart, a pitiful eye in self-pleasure, and by the means of curse words and harsh temper, he was told, repeatedly, by those who countered his way, that he was falling. that learning to walk with his own feet meant to stroll along a beautiful boulevard. all he saw was his own throbbing feet ['look up, look up!'], pretending to try keeping up with a pace that seemed to please him once ago. most of those were so convinced of the dignity of making a choice, that in fact never took a second-guess on where would they go to. there was no question, to begin with ['it is strange, in fact, to think that only a few will ever wonder if they are ever off tracks'].

the gloomy ache inked. as it arose out of him, despair was overbore by doubts, reason and a sheer silly optimism that involuntary reflexes, revolutionary thinking and facing the cold sun above with fearful closed eyes all nurtured: so frequent as it became the seek for limerence-like heart pumps, the sheer optimism risked being turned into an addiction. so it became. it was decided: all turned into a solemn ritual, and he shall find the right time, the right motion, the right impulse, for all the right reasons. after all, a righteous man he was to become. an answer was found to the question that came before the question. ['there is not a way to be truthfully aware of what we are, of what defines our core in the pre-existence. the whole question can be summed up to how can we live an authentic life, a life according to what we feel to have inside of us, one that can truly relate to our convictions, so that we feel not as we are deceiving ourselves. men, be that as it may, are conformed by multiple fractions of  sudden impressions, persuasive discourses, sheer realising, love, sound, peace, gore and reason - be you an open-hearted man, and you'll never know who truly you are, for your heart lies in the longing of everyone you care to stare! as such, looking at ourselves means resolving a dispute. doubts are dispelled through the strong impulse of our actions, that reestablish the terms of our own existencial doubts, by generating impact on our surroundings. we will never be truly kind unless we take a chance to be kind and act on it. otherwise, we might just betray our own hearts with selfish deeds. the struggle for authenticity lies not in the realms of mind, but simply in the actions we take. and taking action is always a violent act against ourselves, for we shut part of what we have inside and choose what we want to be. it is a violence that also maims our complexities, allowing us to feel, in time, better inclined to take actions we have taken before, as if we created a shell to resist our own inner attacks and oppositions. however, never the disgust of an inauthentic life fades away, like a constant cry we hear calling us back, taking all the colours and tastes of life away, leaving nothing but eerie regret. for that, for all that matter, to live a authentic life is to pledge an oath so as to bind past, present and future, as if it was one. we shall not punish ourselves for mistakes we make, but the constant present has a responsibility to bind what have we been, as bearers of our memories and contradictory reflexes, to what we want to become, until time is one. then, nothing else is left, for, as it concerns to men who, in an attempt to find an atheist moral, can answer, as Nietzsche proposed, to the demon that comes to condemn you to live your whole life once more, and again, infinite times: "You are a god and I have never heard anything more divine". Nowhere to be it matters anymore. The path, in itself, presents all the greatest of joy. And you will erode choices as they are put, and you will open your eyes and look up, look up! And you will feel that all your life will be/is/was lived to the most of it.']

in the heartiest of moments, such an impetus would strike upon the man and a he would feel a bright about the warmth in his heart. but he was in a struggle for his body. he could not always control it. the theoretical body would not resist against the good old vices of flesh, a sort of addiction to pain that got so strongly his muscle memory such as to curve his back in a constant bow, hide his smiles and absorb his energy in tiredness [just a last one, then i'll go...]. he developed an acute contradictory behaviour: a hopeful pessimistic revolutionary man without a reason to go on [look up, look up!]. it rose, the pain of feeling trapped in his own body. the first struggles were lost by a little. but the opposition to action grew, as he became tired and old from all the defeats. for that, he started taking stronger measures…

first, he caught a glimpse of the cold sun above. sped up and jumped to another circle: a short game of tabula rasa. he definitely was not alone. painstakingly, he would address his matters to a mad girl in surety of technicalities to fool an opposing body. dazzled, stunned, amazed, astonished, staggered. to all he said, such a simple response to the aching body of an apparently young man. to him, who could not even conceive to stroll along such a wide boulevard, she would say:

‘just do it!’

between packing his worries and piling up duties, close to coming back to the old track, he did it.

ah, como é bom o gosto dessa impropriedade! a sensação de amarrar as pontas e perceber que seu desenho nada, ou muito pouco, tem a ver com os que rodeiam embebe a vaidade. uma vaidade carregada de gosto amargo, de resignação conturbada, pois quem há de dizer que não resisto a essa vereda? eu tenho comigo que são tantos momentos de significantes dispersos pelos humores partidos que traçar um bom caminho de volta, ainda que possível, não é fácil, simples, objetivamente processual. carrego todos os medos da exposição…

eu não estou me sentindo bem. parece que peço por um milagre, parece que grito por uma intervenção. que corra o cavalo alado no último ato antes de me cruzar a flecha pelo peito a levar-me pelo panorama dessa guerra de mim contra o tempo. e não, não, a música não é confortante. ela apenas parece portar uma energia que simboliza a estranheza que se resolve em fascinação pela alteridade. agora mesmo, ao prostrar-me em ação, contra passadas de absorção, eu apenas rememoro que a melodia me coloca com meus distintos tempos, mas não apresenta força pra solução de nada.

de nada. pois já sei tudo o que tenho de fazer. não há quem a me dizer ou coisa semelhante, que o pareça. eu viajo se creio que tenho força o bastante pra mudar meus atos. assim como não bem me vejo, não creio em mim o bastante pra encontrar forças que me tirem dessa condição. e eu vou ficando mais cego, a medida em que me afundo.

estou esvaindo pelo poço… devagar, renunciando a vida pelos exercícios de vida. um homem de amostras, demonstrações, testes, o amor virtual. deixa disso, não é? viver a custa das decepções, da descoberta da incapacidade? nada foi de fato luta. e você não tem coragem pra lutar, mesmo. cala a boca e vá dormir, antes que invadam seu quarto os bárbaros, príncipe decadente!