Loading ...Dear Ring,
You are leaving, I know, you barely were here. Didn’t even call. You sent me that message so we could go and have a coffee somewhere. I answered, and then nothing. I waited for two weeks and this is already the third. Now I know you are gone, they told me. I feel it.
I did receive sort of a contact but it was all blank, as if you were some kind of blank man. With nothing to say. The same blank you used to be. That’s probably what suits you best. I guess, you must have been wandering here and there. Phoning this and that girl. I know. Fixing meetings all across the country. In your first class trains. Full of comfort. In coffee-shop toilets. Inside rental cars. In poorly lit streets. Or in bars where everyone was rolling joints just because the name of the place was Moroccan. A name that didn’t belong in any movie. In any book. Yeah, you’re subscribing your services. Knocking from door to door. Looking for your lost soul. I know you search for nothing and you just let yourself go with the wind. Feels good. Better that way. For the time being. It does me well to know how you are. It does me good to hear about you. Believing that you’re someone special and that I’ll never meet anyone like you again.
People tell me stories. Of your presence, of your passage, of your way of speaking. Slowly. Gloomy. Always thinking about something ever than what you’re saying. Always with your mind further away, further ahead. On the clouds. Looking at others and finding all their details, right at the first chords. The expressions and the faults. What remains of a face, of a talking mouth. A mouth that answers. Wanting to help them. With a kiss. But I know you listen like no one else. You just listen to everything, like now, don’t you? That’s why I talk, that’s why I write, because I know you read me. Without complication. That’s what you like, to listen. To live within the reach of others sight. You just want to be known that you’re around. Ready for everything. A sun. Or a moon with its different facial expressions. You enlighten me, yes, from afar. From near. A bliss to know that you exist. That you are more than my imagination. More than the ideas in my head as I awake. My first chords. Where I see your presence. Coming to me full of comfort. You give me such a peace. Or your image, walking. Passing by. Asking if I’m all right. In that rental life of yours. With that name that isn’t in any movie. That house of yours at the bottom of the desert, with no address. Do you hear me? I know you do.
When one leaves there is always a return. Is it true? Always returning to the point of departure, like a spring? The return as a sequence of a departure, the “eternal return”? The motherland? Tell me when you’ll be back. Now that you return to your realm of puppets. To your circus, where everything is make believe. Almost fake. Gone back. To your grains of sand, that come together beyond your control. That come apart in the words of someone that remains from your own face. In expressions and faults. Are you coming before or after everything takes place? Or did your everything take place already? No. The “everything” is always taking place, it is eternal, like returning. Yours and mine. Return is forever. Returning is always showing at the theaters near you.
Do you recall the last thing you did before getting there? The last face you’ve seen, can you still view it? That sad man inside you, is he still there? The one who waited for a few seconds. Did he have a name, did he smile? Did he shiver, with the tingling of your fingers? Did he wait that all to be gone, to let you go? Can you see him, feel his lips? Forgive him? Feel the melody on the other side of the window, that sweet voice coming from the other side of the world. That you do not know who from but at the same time breathes together with you? It displayed you. Like a wall. It died for you. It drowned. It got lost. Came back under another shape, builded hard, I’m sure. With a luggage more complete, more full. But, at the same time, much lighter. There is nothing to fear, trust me. Told me a friend of yours, the imaginary friend you talk with on the phone.
Nothing!
You know what you want, you know quite well what remains of you. You sense good enough all the faces of the moon. You looked at them countlessly. They’ve already lived with you so much of what is there to be lived. You remember, I know, you have it well stored.
And there is so much to say. Always so much that it ends up not being told at all. Not written. Not done. Will you do it now? Open all your windows and cry your treasures? Don’t you mention that missing grain. It doesn’t matter. I want you to dance like in old times. Ours. Do you still call to mind? That dead supplement, or the steps towards the abyss that we realized only too late? The sea. Do you recall the sea? The wind that came and stayed quietly there, smelling what we had to offer. And the city. Our city. With rivers. That flowed from the sea to the source. Back to the mountain. Fearing death. Do you remember their names, how they flowed in a hurry? The water upside down saying farewell, throwing kisses. Playing. Almost pretending. It wasn’t that long ago. And the rivers remain on the same beds. Slower. Gloomed out. More disheveled. Always drunk, the water, waiting for you to return. The rivers know about you, because I tell them your stories. Because whenever you write I throw your letters into them. Waiting for them to rebel and eat up all at once the city that cries for you. Over here.
Is there anyone else crying for you? That knew your name, that spoke on the phone without being just imaginary? That undressed for you? In the lift. Inside a pillow. On the garden’s lawn? That told you everything without raining. And waited for you to say that all that was more than you were feeling? Waited for you to forget the faults? You could no longer look at any more expressions. Upon faces. In possession. You have to let it go. In deep silence. Off your soul, still certainly unfound. Your cast. And leave the man within you that confesses to the depths of him. Leave him! The one that cuts to pieces the grains of sand still to arise. That arrange meetings all across the country, trying to get higher. And forming, constructing, a new body. Unique. Such as can’t be found elsewhere. Unparallel, protected from any copy machine. Clean. Full of sun. And moons of infinite faces that are discovered in the pleasure of its expressions. Faultless. In too small a land.
You can always return. Anytime. Leave a new world open, it only takes getting in and carrying on. Both feet at once. In that mirror of yours. Time runs ahead of you, do not look at it. Let it go. Far, far away. Let it suffer softly. Buy it a first class ticket and let it travel in comfort. Maybe it will come across someone on the way and become a regular and pleasant sigh. In a mouth that speaks. And kisses. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop.
Did you know? I like you so very much. To the infinite and back. I know you fell the same for me. Bon voyage. My Love. Always.
Sincerely,
Me
[LETTER FOUND LOCALLY, IN 2005, ON A PORTUGUESE NEWSPAPER]
One Comment
“Buy it a first class ticket and let it travel in comfort. Maybe it will come across someone on the way and become a regular and pleasant sigh. In a mouth that speaks. And kisses. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop. That spells all your senses at once. In a loop.”
Reler cada palavra irá corrigir a deformação de caracter em insistir em não querer correr todos os perigos do Mundo, sem os menores cuidados, quando escrevo as minhas cartas de amor.
F.