terça-feira, 10 de julho de 2012

Contrato temporário

Texto de 2009, encontrado no meio de recibos velhos.

  Não assinei contrato que justifique o fato de tomar o mesmo veneno que todos bebem, à mesma medida que todos sorvejam: o mesmo cálice, o mesmo trago, não assinei...
  Ainda todos me vêem como anormal, por não enlouquecer num padrão, viver dias tão tabelados quanto a estampa das flanelas que vos cobrem os peitos nus. Não assinei.
  Eles, vocês, assinaram. Se embebedam nos períodos e frequencias, e dali a pouco saem; e quando saem, é como um tique no segundo do relógio circular, enquanto o que lhes comanda são os infinitos doze números que só hão de parar quando a vida lhes abandonar os corpos.
  E a pouca liberdade que lhe resta é assistir a si mesmo desacelerando sobre a mesma linha que percorreu a vida toda, e sempre passou pelos mesmos ponteiros.
  "O mundo é redondo".
Não assinei.

sexta-feira, 6 de julho de 2012

Gold and Silver

I wish only for one who can fight beside me, and at night, 
when all the roars and callings of the war finally cease,
I can share my pain with him, and sleep a dreamless sleep.
I just wish for one that runs parallel to my road
Instead of simply crossing mine and leaving.

   Dust and smoke slowly faded to the ground, leaving a thin mist floating over the dead bodies.
The smell of burned hay and blood mixed into the horrifying scent of the battlefield. Chariots were pushed by soldiers, wounded men piled up with the sink of disiase, retreating to camp with the hope of being saved by the priests and doctors. Only the winners could. For the losers, a honorless execution was set by the few who remained nearly harmless from the lost battle. A blade to the neck, and by dusk, fire set to their bones, to avoid disiases from spreading.
   She pulled the sword off another fresh deadbody and wiped the mess of sweat, dust and blood off her forehead uselessly. Her breaths were heavy and the armor weight was finally felt by her sore muscles. Her lungs were crushed under iron and silver and her chest panted. Aimlessly, the swordswoman started marching across the fetid field, towards the forest, dragging her blade on the ground, not willing to sheat up the dirty blade.
  Footsteps started approaching her. She did not bother looking back to see who it was, as she already knew. A slight smile flashed by her tired features. The running ceased and a golden blooded plate glove laid on her shoulder.
   - I know you're eager to leave already, btu could have waited for me, couldn't you, Alluar?
   She let go a muffled chuckle and simply kept walking as he now walked with her. Her silver eyes met his amber glare, showing a deep gratitude for his presence.
   - Eryos, for once, just for once, I wish I could not hear their screams in my head during the night.
   - Then I will make sure you do not, my dear. Even if it means writing a song or summoning a bard.
   They kept marching toghether downhill, away from the remains of the chaos that lasted seven days. The howling of the survivors finally faded as the tree leaves shutted the sunlight away. There, it felt life was still livable, that besides the horror people place among eachother, nature was still the one true ruler of this world, and it would harbor whoever craved her arms and respected her.
   The sound of running water filled the dusking afternoon. He carried a blanket of sheep skin, which he placed near the river's shores, under a tree, over the thick grass. She slowly walked towards the water with the birth of a smile upon her lips. He rushed behind her and turned her around, grabbing her by the shoulders. He waved 'no' with his head. She indulged him with her silvery eyes. He placed his index finger upon those lips.
   He took her right hand and started pulling the strings, straps and clips that held her plate gloves in place. Grabbing the first piece of armor, he tossed it on a pile of grass on the floor. She stared at him with a tide rising under her glowing irises. He took the bracer and twisted it off as well. A stack of silver metal pieces started rising among the plants.
   She started doing the same, joining him in this slow, sweet detoxication. The white coat under her armor and the black under his were both dirty and stained in blood, earth and dust. After a week under such conditions their noses were far past getting used to the smell. She removed his armplate, shoulderplates, unstrapped his chest golden armor pieces as beside the silver pile a golden pile also grew. Two tones of chainmail fell and they stood facing eachother in simple thick stained clothing and cotton socks.
   He stepped forth and took her in his arms, kissing her with such depth and strenght as if he had not been fighting an endless war all this time, but as if he had just woke to the most beautiful morning of his life. He lifted her feet off the ground and as they embraced they stubled downhill and into the river.
   Both fell on the chilling water, soaking to their bones. When they emerged, laughter bursted off their lips and they swimmed towards eachother, hugging. She reached down and took off her boots, throwing them to the shore, and he followed. His fingers ran up her neck and under her hair in an endless caress of two people setting themselves free from the burden of battle and blood. She kissed him back and laughed, untieing his robe and at last undressing him. She stole the robe and swam away witht he speed of a mermaid, leaving him nude and confused.
   She removed her own robe and dived under the water, scratching the clothes on a flat stone. A dark cloud of a brown tone oozed from the tissues and all the stains faded. She ran to the shore once more and hanged the outfits on a low tree branch. He just laughed and smiled, completely amused by the beauty of that unbreakable sylphide. Her gorgeous curves and skin shined under the twilight's glow due to the water. She jumped back into the water and every tought fled his head. All he wished for was her, and he knew she was his tonight. The untamable fury they both had in heart was soothed and their muscles were renewed by the cold cleansing bath. Her white, grayish hair floated in the water like gravity was unexistant as she moved towards him. Their lips met once more.

   - What is this we do, Alluar? - He asked, as the sun calmly started shining across the tree canopies, forming curtains of white dust and light. He held her in his arms, his rough hands on her back as they both rested upon the blanked after the long loving night.
   - Does it matter what it is, my dear, my friend? We fight on this long battle until the day it takes the best out of us, until the day we for once lose. For now what matters is we fight, and we fight honrably, as this is our calling from this life. Someday the reaper shall come for us, and I will take his hand into the outer world, for I will know he will not come before our work is done. Meanwhile we give him others to reap and enjoy the peace we have after the fights and during the times of truce. Is it not enough for it to be a gift we have, to enjoy eachother as we do? Must it have a name to keep happening?
   - No... - He smiled, admiring her. How could one have all she had? The gift of swaying the blade, and such eyesight upon this bitter life they had? She was one true fairy, but not as fragile as a spirit of the nature. She was someone he could die for. - It does not matter after all, moonchild. One cannot say much after your words, can he? - He laughed. - you have resumed it all as good as only you can do. 
   Sofly they embraced and kissed again. By the next morning, one of them would be wounded, not fatally, but enough to leave the battle. The other would lose hope and regain it only at the last crucial second. But it was what they had chosen to live, and as she said, would live until the death's vulture came sweep them off this world.


domingo, 24 de junho de 2012

A Arquitetura do Labirinto

 Somos criaturas estranhas. Quando queremos alguma coisa, não basta levantar e pegar. Temos medo, medo de chegar ali, de tropeçar no meio do caminho, de chegar lá e ter perdido aquilo, mesmo que esteja a milímetros de distância. Então inventamos jogos, universos paralelos, regras que não existiam, estradas recurvas que dariam no mesmo lugar se fossem retas, para tentar alcançar aquilo de outro jeito.
 No final, nos perdemos tanto nesta invenção, que esquecemos por que ela sequer foi criada. E a maçã apodrece em cima da mesa.

sábado, 23 de junho de 2012


Sempre fui fascinada por penas e pássaros.

   O passado da caneta, a pena, vem de dois fascínios que sempre me reteram; seja das pás tênues e coloridas que fazem aves e anjos alçarem vôo, seja daquela que porta no bico a tinta, ambas descrevendo arcos sinuosos, no céu ou no papel, fazendo a imaginação pairar, planar, decolar.
   Há penas de mil cores ou monocromáticas, listradas, manchadas, estampadas. Há as de cauda, as de vôo, as de corpo. As que iniciam o vôo, as que sustentam, e as que pousam. Cada uma tão parecida com a outra e ainda assim tão diferente; penas têm penas, que mantém unidos aqueles folículozinhos que fazem de muitos fios um leme. Palavras, palavras no ar cheias de palavrinhas que dão nexo às histórias de que tanto nos valemos. Sem história somos nada. Somos viver e morrer, sem palavras; assim como o pássaro de penas cortadas que não alcança o céu, não alcançamos motivo de viver sem o nanquim que derramam pacientemente as penas.
   Vivendo e morrendo deixamos as marcas, as marcas nos papéis, nas pedras, nos caminhos que traçamos . Enquanto vivem e voam, os pássaros nos doam estas maravilhas que nos permitem deixar estas marcas.

terça-feira, 12 de junho de 2012

Batalha Encerrada, Guerra Iniciada

Olha só, faz um ano e quatro dias que não escrevo aqui. Que mau exemplo não?
Verdade seja dita, quase não escrevi muito de qualquer modo. Vou garimpar umas coisas pra postar aqui depois, mas agora vou colocar aqui um texto que escrevi há alguns dias. Começei mais um mas não acabei ainda, talvez por falta de coragem de encará-lo, uma briga que eu queria brigar faz tempo mas não conseguia. Então vou adiar a briga pra depois e postar a batalha agora.
Às vezes me pergunto se alguém lê isso tudo, e se faz sentido de qualquer maneira...



Regina sem súditos

Retumbam na minha porta com toras, com piche, com lanças, espadas, ódio, escárnio e determinação os homens e mulheres da guerrilha. Ressonam e insistem com baques surdos, e as cintas de ferro do portão laceiam, e a madeira se solta e vai cedendo aos socos e rufos do arrombador.  E sei que só eu espero do outro lado, aguardo o cair das lascas, o piche escorrer muros adentro, o fogo alastrar as vilas e arrastar para além meu pensamento.
Esta batalha de anos que lutei mais colocando pessoas fora dos muros do que as recturando para dentro; essa patética epópeia em que me convenci de que lutava por algo quando a cidadela não tinha população, me isolando com cercos de pedra, flores e papel que me afastava de um vil sofrimento. Há sofrimentos maiores, há guerras maiores e maiores reinos, mas era este o meu, e eram agora meus muros solitários que iam lentamente sendo transpassados.
Entrego então meu destino aos muros, jardins, armadilhas, portais, casas e castelo que construí durante décadas. O material veio sempre do estrangeiro, de fora, mas escolhi onde os colocava, o que fazia com cada semente, com cada naco de terra que me entregaram. Me abriram um rombo na terra e vi que ali podia ainda haver solo fértil. Quando algo aparecia, eu recolhia sob meus braços e transformava em algo meu.
Sei que os muros e as casas e todo o reino irá ruir em breve sob os passos tamboris deste novo tempo que irrompe em meu lar e minhas portas. E fico feliz de ver gente, mas não de vê-los agir das formas que nunca quis ver, das maneiras pelas quais acabei me isolando deste mundo vil.
                E depois que o incêncio acinzenta, depois que a soleira desfaz, depois que cada fio de veludo foi desfiado e desprezado, depois que os homens partiram com os espólios da vitória de uma batalha que mal precisaram lutar, restava eu, a armadura do corpo, e a espada, em meio à praça destruída, dada por morta, desfalecida, sem enterro, sem chamas, sem funeral, sem respeito.
                E quando parecia que ao menos o silêncio me havia sido restituído -  apesar dos telhados que ainda crepitavam – uma presença se aproximou de meus pés e uma sombra interrompeu a sentença do sol.
                E uma garota, tão apenas uma garota, como a que eu fora um dia, num vestido de linho sujo, olhou para mim com este olhar que não era lançado, mas deitado sobre mim como um véu, um lençol, como se me entregasse um manto de conforto e paz. E pos sobre meu peito metálico a rosa vermelha e espinhosa de meu sangue.
Foi-se embora a garota e eu não ousava levantar dali, que enfim aquela vida avassaladora morria, e so me levantaria dali quando meu espírito renascesse e Thaumas viesse erguer meus brancos panos.