Naive Mornings

Upon hearing some of your words, the childish everyday routine came into my mind, through which the moist soil cured the fever of my feet, sick of euphoria, that would run through the lethargy, escaping from my obligations, in search of a well of shadow, by the silent weight of the logs hidden in that farm. The weather, versatile and volatile, played with me in my mornings that, as vagabonds, seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, carried by winds from the south, amid 'sleepwalking my inattention. I would fasten my steps to find you, always lying in the same dark room, escaping from the sunlight, with the infant breasts skyward, eyes closed and sharped ears, observing my breathing. I lingered there beside you, holding the land next to you, as if we are one body only, and didn't even know. We would silent by the sound of birds singing our yet naive love.

This memory came quickly, like a flash, as a lapse in the middle of your speech. I stare at this moment, your eyes filled with tears, sobbing anguish, while our little one is calling you in the next room.Your words shouted in anger, the phone thrown on the wall at the irritation that culminates in your words - we're having another baby.

I do like children, I would cry, laugh, I would love these words at any other moment. In lack of understanding, though, I took my flight fleeting eyelashes, and then came this blow in memory, like an epiphany, that perhaps I would prefer our love when we still did not know it existed.

Petite studio

A small studio, petite studio, she called it, her lips leaning towards my eyes. I barely knew that language, and hardly knew that accent - maybe it was Moroccan, or maybe it was not from nowhere, but her own. The windows opened, but the smell of old books combined with the smell of paint dyed that room. Reddish, purple-blue, some-of-rose - those were the colors I breathed in this rectangular studio.

She stood there, that woman, looking at the people passing through the streets below her window. Her studio was black and white, and so was she - as an old photograph in any book by Doubat. She wore a skirt and her long hair partially covered her bare breasts. She had dark skin, slim nose, she should be Moroccan. She had slanted eyes,straight hair, perhaps she was Japanese. Full lips, thick legs. This woman had no nationality.

In her hands, a book. Thin and with few words. She ran her hands through the pages, changing them, passing them, delicately. Then, she decided to visit one of those. She lit her cigarette. The smoke walked through her lips and tenderness mingled with the essence of paints, letters, nudity.

And she finally read some words.

« Une femme mûre est la suivante: a quelque chose d'unique orchidée qui pousse une malle pleine. Pas un lit de marguerites bavardage jeunes le matin. »*

I did not understand a word of what she uttered. But my eyes stared into hers, opened, closed, silent and so talkative, and I believed every letter of what she said - without even suspecting they were Sant 'Anna's.

Irrationality

We were opposed, averse and differentiated. I liked jazz. She loved rock. I played the piano. She would play matchbox in situations in which it would be funny. I had two cats, and she blistered allergy. I was crazy about the beach. She was scared of the daylight. I went to the theater on fridays. She went to nightclubs.

[I met her unexpectedly, she appeared in front of me and I could not contain the involuntary smile that came into me. She had a shampoo-commercial hair, black and curly and a Carmen's glance - how cliche wouldn't that be in any other situation ]

As I wrote poems, she would solve mathematical equations - indeed, she studied engineering. I asked her to explain me by equations why we were together. She did: Romantic man + beautiful woman = Love. Despite being awful in mathematics, I knew how this equation was wrong. Indeed, our love did not make sense at all.

We fought like ​​dog and cat, we disagreed on everything. As I read Neruda, she solved Sudoku. I liked Fellini, Almodovar, Bergman. What about her. She would only go to the movies for an American foolish comedy. But ultimately, when she touched my neck, I shuddered, rolled my eyes from the sides, and melted into love speeches.

After all, you do not love someone for liking Miles Davis, going to the theater, or because they know how to appreciate modern art.

You love someone for being irrational.

Romance to Clarice*

That smile you had. It matched your eyes, which stared vehemently and felt vigorously. You were all upright, all charming, artistic glances and words through hoarse. Silent lips, expressive eyelashes,and a gait that denounced you. I loved your red yarn hair, slender and short that, despite the smallness, you insisted on holding back. To be honest, we've seen each other few times - through coincidences or bumping - but I wanted to tell you all the time: Let's get married, let's get married in a small village in Turkey, or Iceland, that nobody knows about, in which nobody is watching. And let's be just the two of us, with one another - it is fairly easy to get along when there is no world around to talk us. Let's get married somewhere small and secret of this big city.

You would not believe me, though. Or you would just not want it. Through your silence - full of words -, I didn't understand much about you. Truth is that you made ​​sure no one would understand. You would insist: - Do not bother to understand me. To live me goes beyond any understanding. - But you were different, you were so many, an almost-everyone, an almost-everything. And I knew, I was sure you were a mystery to yourself.

Love begins.

Love begins. At any corner, at any second, in any theater or caffe, love begins. It begins in the blink of an eye, at a hand touch in the edge of hesitation, love may be proven through a smell, through a song, or a dance.Love begins at a theater, through the steps of some foolish movie, through exchanged lips, tongues intertwined, restless and excited, in the shadows of a romance.

And when it starts, love turns into different formats. In Rio, love turns into a newspaper story. In New York, it becomes a play. In Italy, love turns into tarantella. In Hollywood, movies. In Paris, a novel it becomes. In Brasilia, it becomes concrete. In countryside, love turns into gossip. In Britain, it becomes accent. And overfull love turns into and out of sexes.

And so it is everywhere. In Brasilia, love begins on the summer terrace remains, underneath buildings,through cigarettes' smoke and the sound of commercials. In the northern hemisphere, love begins in a warm winter. In the South, love begins in a note from a carnival. In Japan, love gets pulled over through a petite glance.But anywhere in the world, love begins as an emergency, and for ever.

(...) Even if, someday, it will be over.

Insane love

There is nothing as beautiful as to be loved by a madman. You know that,even if it doesn't seem so, you are a solid idea, torment of the nights, and a sigh through several mornings. It is known that jealousy is not an exaggeration of the past, but sometimes is just asleep. There is certainty that you will not pass unmarked. And finally, there is the knowledge that, although the romance has already ended, the love of a madman does not die,but resists to all vicissitudes and changes in life.

It gets me security and prop to be loved by Insanity.

Absence of a self

It was late afternoon and the gentle breeze had faced lightly against my window,fostering an early chill. The sun delicately faded away and theblue sky flowed in different shades: orange, greenish, roseate. While my eyes were greeted with that rain that fall out of colors, the expected shadow bore me an usual crisis. I was in lack of the usual alcohol and the customary cigarette, though - what took me then, to immerse and sink slowly. I threw myself towards the bed, eyes heavy with exhaustion, my body nude, unclothed make-up. I, genuine and naive.

It was then that I felt emptiness.

Shivers

He contoured me in a sudden insomnia, outlined my fingers, one by one, as if he admired the mold and drew my corps with the tips of his fingers, with a delicate venom. Scribbled me slowly, weighing on my body. My eyes blossomed asdrowsiness, I closed my eyelids, through’hesitation, and paused for a moment.

Every space has its transition, as every period has its wander. That time and space nestled ’waiting for me, and I strolled on other sites, on other compasses.My mouth agape, the only existence there was the rooming of his tender hand,which pervaded throughout my flesh - neck, dorse, breasts, hair, lips and lids.

When I opened my eyes slowly-flutter, I was looking down, towards my bare feet: I, like coming into the world, nude, deflowered the silence of a self, throughan acute ephemeral and elusive,uncontrollable crying, to the trembling of my body, unconscious joy.

It was then that I realized that I did not know what was real indeed, what spacewas accurate, and what compass was precise. And finally, I did not even know the difference between simply feeling and the fluttering insanity