post tenebras lux

Folhas amarelecidas ou avermelhadas acumulam-se alegremente sobrepondo-se ao verde da superfície, como que abraçando esse verde num enterro longamente esperado e inesperadamente indolor, deixando para trás no ar que percorrem até se fazerem chão, essa brisa que corre lentamente envolvendo os tristes na doçura de um Outono que há muito não se via tão ameno.
São horas, sopra o infinito. São horas de te ergueres, o dilúvio emocional já lá vai, terá quem sabe ficado imobilizado nesse espaço entre o verde do chão e os tons vistosos das folhas, que hoje todos pisam num passo apressado, porque longe vão os dias de sol em que estendidos no verde, os tristes sem saberem que o são, observam as folhas ainda nos troncos robustos das àrvores. São horas, são horas de olhares o teu reflexo nas àguas estranhamente calmas do rio e de não caires na tentação relativamente absurda de lhe atirares pedras que sabes que não se ficam por flutuações num reflexo visível à tona da água límpida e hoje quase imóvel, mas que viajam até se fixarem nas profundezas desse mesmo rio que esconde tantos e tão distintos seres que extraordinariamente coexistem misturados numa quietude aparente aos olhos de quem se passeia inocente e distraidamente pelas suas margens.
São horas, mais do que nunca, de te deixares guiar pela luz e de abraçares a estranheza e a incerteza daquilo que se te apresenta hoje, porque no outro lugar onde raízes emergentes se foram criando ao longo de um tempo que já não é de ninguém, capazes de te enlaçar por completo numa escuridão pela qual te deixas seduzir e à qual te acostumaste com ternura, talvez resultante de um martírio aconchegante provocado pela presença de múltiplos desencantos que tendes a adivinhar mesmo antes da sua aparição, nesse lugar que frequentas com amor e devoção, cessaste tristemente de existir.
São horas, e a partir de agora, serão sempre horas, de enfrentares o desafio peremptório de te entregares à vida, tal como ela se entrega a ti sem se repugnar, todos os dias. Gritam os imponentes relógios espalhados pela cidade por onde te passeias, que são horas de aceitares com ou sem ponta de sofrimento, que o realista chegou a ti para pôr em prática a obra do sonhador.

stay positive

“I haven’t failed. I’ve found 10,000 ways that don’t work.”

confession

"But five years ago
something very strange began to happen to me. At first I began having moments of bewilderment, when my life would come to a halt, as if I did not know how to live or what to do; I would lose my presence of mind and fall into a state of depression. But this passed, and I continued to live as before. Then the moments of bewilderment recurred more frequently, and they always took the same form. Whenever my life came to a halt, the questions would arise: Why? And what next?

At first I thought these were pointless and irrelevant questions. I thought that the answers to them were well known and that if I should ever want to resolve them, it would not be too hard for me; it was just that I could not be bothered with it now, but if I should take it upon myself, then I would find the answers. But the questions began to come up more and more frequently, and their demands to be answered became more and more urgent . . .

The questions seemed to be such foolish, simple, childish questions. But as soon as I laid my hands on them and tried to resolve them, I was immediately convinced, first of all, that they were not childish and foolish questions but the most vital and profound questions in life, and, secondly, that no matter how much I pondered them there was no way I could resolve them. Before I could be occupied with my Samara estate, with the education of my son, or with the writing of books, I had to know why I was doing these things. As long as I do not know the reason why, I cannot do anything. In the middle of my concern with the household, which at the time kept me quite busy, a questions would suddenly come into my head: "Very well, you will have 16,200 acres in the Samara province, as well as 300 horses; what then?" And I was completely taken aback and did not know what else to think. As soon as I started to think about the education of my children, I would ask myself, "Why?" Or I would reflect on how the people might attain prosperity, and I would suddenly ask myself, "What concern is it of mine?" Or in the middle of thinking about the fame that my works were bringing me I would say to myself, "Very well, you will be more famous than Gogol, Pushkin, Shakespeare, Moliere, more famous than all the writers in the world - so what?
And I could find absolutely no reply.

My life came to a stop. I could breathe, eat, drink, and sleep; indeed, I could not help but breathe, eat, drink, and sleep. But there was no life in me because I had no desires whose satisfaction I would have found reasonable. If I wanted something, I knew beforehand that it did not matter whether or not I got it.
If a fairy had come and offered to fulfill my every wish, I would not have known what to wish for. If in moments of intoxication I should have not desires but the habits of old desires, in moments of sobriety I knew that it was all a delusion, that I really desired nothing. I did not even want to discover truth anymore because I had guessed what it was. The truth was that life is meaningless . . .

The only thing that amazed me was how I had failed to realize this in the very beginning. All this had been common knowledge for so long. If not today, then tomorrow sickness and death will come (indeed, they were already approaching) to everyone, to me, and nothing will remain except the stench and the worms. My deeds, whatever they may be, will be forgotten sooner or later, and I myself will be no more. Why, then, do anything? How can anyone fail to see this and live? That's what is amazing! It is possible to live only as long as life intoxicates us; once we are sober we cannot help seeing that it is all a delusion, a stupid delusion! Nor is there anything funny or witty about it; it is only cruel and stupid."

Leo Tolstoy