Special K

Durante muito tempo acostumei-me a ter os meus pensamentos dispersos. O dia-a-dia, era vivido como um sistema p2p, o download é feito através de pequenas partes, que não fazem parte de uma sequência lógica, mas de um sistema qualquer onde a desordem governa.

Agora, tudo condensou. Existe uma linha de base, onde por mais que os meus pensamentos se separem da realidade, acabam por terminar sempre em ti. O que é que mudou? Podia dizer que muito pouco, mas sinto que tenho um prolongamento de mim em ti, e que sinto profundamente, em especial no teu respirar.

Encontrei o verdadeiro significado de saudade. Volta depressa.

You are special

The Wemmicks were small wooden people. Each of the wooden people was carved by a woodworker named Eli. His workshop sat on a hill overlooking their village. Every Wemmick was different. Some had big noses, others had large eyes. Some were tall and others were short. Some wore hats, others wore coats. But all were made by the same carver and all lived in the village. And all day, every day, the Wemmicks did the same thing: They gave each other stickers. Each Wemmick had a box of golden star stickers and a box of gray dot stickers. Up and down the streets all over the city, people could be seen sticking stars or dots on one another.

The pretty ones, those with smooth wood and fine paint, always got stars. But if the wood was rough or the paint chipped, the Wemmicks gave dots. The talented ones got stars, too. Some could lift big sticks high above their heads or jump over tall boxes. Still others knew big words or could sing very pretty songs. Everyone gave them stars.

Some Wemmicks had stars all over them! Every time they got a star it made them feel so good that they did something else and got another star. Others, though, could do little. They got dots.

Punchinello was one of these. He tried to jump high like the others, but he always fell. And when he fell, the others would gather around and give him dots.

Sometimes when he fell, it would scar his wood, so the people would give him more dots. He would try to explain why he fell and say something silly, and the Wemmicks would give him more dots. After a while he had so many dots that he didn't want to go outside. He was afraid he would do something dumb such as forget his hat or step in the water, and then people would give him another dot. In fact, he had so many gray dots that some people would come up and give him one without reason. "He deserves lots of dots," the wooden people would agree with one another. "He's not a good wooden person."

After a while Punchinello believed them. "I'm not a good Wemmick," he would say. The few times he went outside, he hung around other Wemmicks who had a lot of dots. He felt better around them.

One day he met a Wemmick who was unlike any he'd ever met. She had no dots or stars. She was just wooden. Her name was Lucia. It wasn't that people didn't try to give her stickers; it's just that the stickers didn't stick. Some admired Lucia for having no dots, so they would run up and give her a star. But it would fall off. Some would look down on her for having no stars, so they would give her a dot. But it wouldn't stay either. 'That's the way I want to be,'thought Punchinello. 'I don't want anyone's marks.' So he asked the stickerless Wemmick how she did it. "It's easy," Lucia replied. "every day I go see Eli."

"Eli?" "Yes, Eli. The woodcarver. I sit in the workshop with him." "Why?" "Why don't you find out for yourself? Go up the hill. He's there."

And with that the Wemmick with no marks turned and skipped away. "But he won't want to see me!" Punchinello cried out. Lucia didn't hear. So Punchinello went home. He sat near a window and watched the wooden people as they scurried around giving each other stars and dots. "It's not right," he muttered to himself. And he resolved to go see Eli. He walked up the narrow path to the top of the hill and stepped into the big shop. His wooden eyes widened at the size of everything. The stool was as tall as he was. He had to stretch on his tiptoes to see the top of the workbench. A hammer was as long as his arm. Punchinello swallowed hard. "I'm not staying here!" and he turned to leave. Then he heard his name.

"Punchinello?" The voice was deep and strong. Punchinello stopped. "Punchinello! How good to see you. Come and let me have a look at you." Punchinello turned slowly and looked at the large bearded craftsman. "You know my name?" the little Wemmick asked.

"Of course I do. I made you." Eli stooped down and picked him up and set him on the bench. "Hmm," the maker spoke thoughtfully as he inspected the gray circles. "Looks like you've been given some bad marks." "I didn't mean to, Eli. I really tried hard." "Oh, you don't have to defend yourself to me, child. I don't care what the other Wemmicks think." "You don't?"

No, and you shouldn't either. Who are they to give stars or dots?
They're Wemmicks just like you. What they think doesn't matter, Punchinello. All that matters is what I think. And I think you are pretty special."
Punchinello laughed. "Me, special? Why? I can't walk fast. I can't jump. My paint is peeling. Why do I matter to you?"

Eli looked at Punchinello, put his hands on those small wooden shoulders, and spoke very slowly. "Because you're mine. That's why you matter to me."
Punchinello had never had anyone look at him like this--much less his maker. He didn't know what to say.
"Every day I've been hoping you'd come," Eli explained.
"I came because I met someone who had no marks."
"I know. She told me about you."
"Why don't the stickers stay on her?"
"Because she has decided that what I think is more important than what they think. The stickers only stick if you let them."

"What?"
"The stickers only stick if they matter to you. The more you trust my love, the less you care about the stickers."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"You will, but it will take time. You've got a lot of marks. For now, just come to see me every day and let me remind you how much I care." Eli lifted Punchinello off the bench and set him on the ground. "Remember," Eli said as the Wemmick walked out the door. "You are special because I made you. And I don't make mistakes."

Punchinello didn't stop, but in his heart he thought, "I think he really means it."
And when he did, a dot fell to the ground.

May all your dots fall silently to the ground, for if given by man, they matter only to other men, if given by the Gods, no one questions, the scars that make up our lives. (when given the choice, pass out stars, drop the dots in the trash.)

- Max Lucado

x

Acordo e penso, onde andas? Que estarás a fazer agora? Estarás a pensar em mim? E agora? Depois fecho os olhos e mais do que te imaginar, vejo-te à minha frente, o mesmo sorriso de sempre que me faz sorrir de olhos fechados. Aproximas-te e dizes‑me aquilo que mais gosto de ouvir “Adoro-te”.

O meu corpo passa a reagir a esse estímulo, e estico os lábios na tua direcção, mas abro os olhos e não estás. Olho em volta, e procuro-te com o tacto, com o sabor, com o cheiro. Este último não me trai. Encontro-te. Volto a sorrir. Estás novamente perto. Procuro em mim memórias tuas, o teu sabor, a forma do teu corpo e as memórias vêm todas. Abro os olhos e não é imaginação. Estás realmente à minha frente. Onde estiveste tanto tempo? E a fazer o quê? Pensaste em mim?

ainda existem provas de amor

No outro dia ouvi uma canção na RADAR que me fez ficar a pensar. Acho imensa piada, ao estilo, mas principalmente à letra.

You are the light by Jens Lekman

Yeah I got busted
So I used my one phone call
To dedicate
A song to you on the radio

Yeah I got busted
In custody
I imagined our melody
Being played on a grand piano

I saw your face in front of me
It was perfect clarity
I saw a light in the end of the tunnel
And it was you

Chorus:

‘Cause you are the light by which I travel into this and that
You are the light
You are the light by which I travel into this and that

Yeah I got busted
I painted a dirty word on your old mans Mercedes-Benz
‘Cause you told me to do it

Yeah I got busted
But soon they released me ‘cause the cops were sad
And they didn’t know how to prove it
Ooh

I saw your face in front of me
It was perfect clarity
I saw a light in the end of the tunnel
And it was you

Chorus:

‘Cause you are the light by which I travel into this and that
You are the light
You are the light by which I travel into this and that

It sounds so obvious, so obvious
Why would anyone need a map or a compass?
It’s so beautiful
To be guided by you
‘Cause you are the light

Chorus:

You are the light by which I travel into this and that
You are the light
You are the light by which I travel into this and that
You are the light light light light
You are the light

I don't want the world. I only want what I deserve.

Precisas disso? Quando o compraste realmente precisavas? Julgava que era só para dizer que tinhas. Achas bem que um pedaço mínimo de roupa custe 80€? E uma mala pequena 2500€ só porque tem duas letras? Deixo-te duas letras DA, que significam doenças associadas.

Aconselho se tiverem tempo e paciência, coisas rara nos dias de hoje, a verem isto:

http://www.storyofstuff.com/index.html

Enjoy.

Sofia

Algo se passou. Nem me dava muito contigo neste momento. Mas o que aconteceu faz-me repensar os meus actos. Um dia em família, uma viagem, e um acidente. Agora espero que as notícias corram depressa com melhoras. Pensamos sempre que os acidentes acontecem apenas aos outros. Também já passei por isto na pele, e sei o que custa, o quanto se sofre, e o pouco que há a fazer. Neste caso, ainda é possível uma recuperação. Espero que tudo te corra pelo melhor. Espero que voltes a reconhecer, a sentir, a cheirar, a tocar, a sorrir. Aos poucos hás-de conseguir.

Escrito a ouvir Summer 78 do Yann Tiersen, que te dedico.

So many nights with your shadow in my bed

Os dias passados na correria são o motivo para não termos tempo para nada. As pequenas relações tornam-se mais intensas por causa deste motivo. Ao chegar a casa, ouve-se manu chao, para acalmar, e uma máxima estranha-se e depois entranha-se na minha pessoa.
So many nights with your shadow in my bed. No fundo tudo se resume mais a um passado próximo do a um presente distante. Mas será possível conciliar os dois.
Tornar o presente mais próximo, da realidade com as pessoas? Porque é que nos refugiamos no trabalho? Porque é que não existe um tempo para pensar? Um tempo para conviver? Existir até pode existir, mas é sempre a correr. Porque existem sempre coisas para fazer ou horas para dormir.

Só queria um sorriso.

Escrito a ouvir Merry Blues by Manu Chao.