segunda-feira, novembro 30, 2009

Loving you after reading Fernando Pessoa


I am swimming. I am finishing my 7th pool, 15 to go. I reach the end of the pool and lift my head completely out of the water. I can smell your perfume. It is the first time I can scent it since the last time I was with you. Besides you I have already identified it in a Korean young lady walking in the garden, probably going to school, or to an important meeting of minor importance for her future life. She was wearing a short miniskirt. Great legs. Another time I detected your perfume downtown, I was rushing to catch the bus, the sidewalk was bursting out with so many people, in a way that I had to push my way into it as if crossing a thick wall made of gelatin. In the middle of all those dressed bodies, of all those mixed scents, I detected your perfume. That one I remember telling you about in a text message saying that if I were blind I would hug the body emanating your artificial odor. You never replied to that text message, but I had another one prepared just for you saying that I would kiss you, remove your clothes and learn about your real smell, the one that you cannot detect elsewhere, except in your naked body. Not on the street, not on the crowded sidewalk, I would do it elsewhere. The location is important. Everything matters when it comes to you. I never sent you that message. I finish all the pools horrified with your smell in the water, in the bands separating the swim tracks, in the glass window, in the water fountain, in the shower, in the sauna, in the shower again and outside, where everything is located. Now I am better, I still feel your smell from time to time as I am sited here in my lonely spot in this public garden filled with naked trees. Now I ask myself if you ever wore a perfume, if I made it up. You looked both surprised and impressed when I told you that such perfume was not proper for you, that you had to get another. It can take a lifetime to choose the right perfume. I told you that. You smiled. Probably you never had a perfume; probably I invented its tones and forms that specify you as adored, beautiful as no one else in my eyes. Probably you smiled thinking how stupid I was. Probably you never existed; probably I invented you, beautiful as no one else in my eyes. I know I am saying gibberish, it is not true, I know you are real. I know that too well. Today I was behind the window facing the sun and the sunny garden. You were walking in a hurry; perhaps you were late to an important meeting with minor importance to your future. I don’t know. I don’t exist in the words you direct towards me, even if you say them looking me in the eyes, I am not there. I was writing behind the window, in a hurry, accelerating my thoughts in a frenetic rhythm of a productive assembly line, but all stopped when I spotted you walking. I stopped. My body froze with the sun. Only my gaze moved, following you avidly until your disappearance into a corner. I don’t know how long it took you to disappear from my sight, but I know it was bigger than the years I have to live, bigger than any idea I may come across during my existence.
But, what is the importance of any of that? All. Very important, the rest doesn’t matter and I am building my life on things that don’t matter. Obviously you are not there in my life, nor under it.

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