Foreign

In a culture in which success is material and tangible; where career comes prior to relationships and joy and happiness are rewards never path; in a society in which off-days should be taken in secret and relationships are weight, since you better choose work over love - priorities are priorities -, Love is underrated.

In a land where intelligence is brain, is logic, is being rational and practical, sentimentalism is drama and sensitiveness is weakness. A land where bad experiences are turn into trauma instead of growth, while people go through life closing themselves in their hard shells full of old scars instead of opening their minds to fill up with new understandings; in which you should be appropriate and polite, and never ask, never tell, never show what you truly feel; where people are full of hollow “how are yous” and “luv yas” but real Love brings a storm of “unwelcome” emotions, and any latent change of landscape in one’s heart is potentially the worst nightmare of every man, once anything out of the comfort zone may be severely dangerous to the habitual heart-frequency and may lead to serious evolution. In a society in which happiness is a linear road of consequent events: get the job/buy the house/find the girl/propose /get marry/have little ones/live-how-they-told-you-to-ever-after; Life is underrated.

In a culture where the words “psycho-somatic” and “intuition” must come straight from a “tree-hugger-talk” and if you do therapy you might as well get used to being asked: “what happened?” A culture where emotions are disposable, discarded and unvalued and mostly to be hidden and disregarded; where detachment and individualism are positive traits and “having a life” is a privilege; I finally come to ask myself what happened to our humanity? What happened to the ability of living instead of existing? What happened to not trying to map out so perfectly the present and future so to leave some room for the unimaginable, intangible, and unexpected serendipity to naturally unveil?

I stand here with myself, walking around the room full of longings and wonders. I stand on the notion that life is to be flexibly lived, full of spontaneity and risk, and I know so well to let life happen while I make my uberly important plans.

I don’t want to not risk it. I’m not afraid of getting hurt.

I here open my arms and offer my chest to the storm. I bare my soul from fears and allow my body to fly into all my indefinite corners. I strip all the darkness and joy I have in my abyss. I accept to fall, to break into million crumbs. I’m okay with getting hurt and cut and smashed by all the forces I’m here exposing. I yearn major implosions and inner tornados on my vast oceans. I’m unafraid. I'm fearless. And all the silly walls that my arms can build, all the guards and self-consciousness is to be buried in elation.

And here seating with my heart in my chest, I realize how much fiber I have in my muscles, how much air I breathe into my lungs; I feel my warm blood swimming its stream and my cells throbbing in expansion. I am developing, overflowing, transforming. I am a new muscle that keeps ripping apart to consequently grow. I am to wonder, to change, to improve. Bring me the earthquake. Shake my entire ground. Break me apart and I reborn again. I survive. I relive. I evolve. I am to go through life fully, embracing every intensity that in my way arises. I am to jump in, duck dive, get on the ride.
I am to venture into my virgin lands, wandering through secret jungles and forests. I am to encounter the secrets of my infinite and to venture into my every concealed cave.
I am. And I am to Live.

Ultra-Passado

Miguel. Road, Salgado. Doce, muito doce. Memória que não apaga nem depois de dezesseis anos passados. Passado que volta e meia escorrega no presente e voa embora de novo sem notícias de retorno. Menino que viveu em segredo até aquela noite que eu o vi atrás da minha porta, queimado, pretinho, olho brilhando, cachinhos cheios de idéias fumegantes dentro de cabeça brilhante. Miguel que foi meu primeiro grande amor. Amor contra corrente que esperou o tempo certo, esperou, persistiu, insistiu, mas que acabou por ser a hora errada. Nunca foi a nossa hora. Miguel de tantos encontros desencontrados, de tantas estórias. Haja história. Miguel que cresceu, casou, deu cria. Miguel que virou homem do outro lado do mundo em que eu vim a virar mulher. E eu daqui, saindo de um namoro e já quase que caindo em outro, guardando o coração sem querer o dar desavisado, eu depois das minhas tantas viagens e estórias ainda tenho você guardado em alguma gaveta em mim. E no meio de dia apertado me deparo com sua foto, filha no colo e me choco com como memória pode ter cheiro, gosto, textura. Te olho aí, cheio de presente e vejo como o passado é antigo. Ultrapassado. Te olho de longe e fico feliz pelo teu caminho. Contemplo sua vida e sorrio imaginando seu momento. Te deixo ir embora da cabeça sem antes deixar de te escrever esse pequeno tributo a sua importância em mim. Não sei se o tempo vai levar, se a vida vai desenrolar, degringolar, mas a verdade é que de tempo e tempo me deparo contigo e nunca é vazio. Sento aqui na minha mesa ao som de Novos Baianos e a menina dança, deixa a menina dançar.