segunda-feira, 31 de outubro de 2011
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.
terça-feira, 18 de outubro de 2011
segunda-feira, 3 de outubro de 2011
"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 . . .