De Certeza


SE CALHAR É POR ME SENTIR CERCADO por essas certezas todas pelos absolutos os absolutos assustam-me particularmente os que são sobre mim provocam-me uma urticária defensiva dão-me um pânico incontrolável uma compulsão para fugir combinada com um outro pânico de não querer não poder mostrar que quero fugir e a sensação é-me tão desconfortável que me basta apenas pensar nisso para me apetecer enfiar a cabeça na areia e nunca mais a tirar de lá mas imagino que existam as incertezas exactamente certas mas não tenho a certeza talvez.



• • •

Logo Se Vê


Suponho que, tal como a maioria, tenho uma ideia de mim mais romântica do que aquilo que sou na realidade. Isto não é em si um problema, a menos que se admita que possa existir uma qualquer autoridade superior credenciada para distinguir a diferença e em quem, sem reservas, deveríamos acreditar (não me parece que exista).

Problema é muito mais, quando por acaso me assaltam vislumbres dessa dissonância, convencer-me que em nome de uma teórica harmonia é absolutamente necessário afinar comportamentos e filtrar pensamentos, quando afinal nunca chego a sair de mim, porque não é possível.

Ou seja, é verdade que me vou esquecendo de como era o futuro, mas não faz mal.



• • •



I sometimes wonder how I’ve managed to carry on this long, always on the brink of doing or saying something very very stupid.

You wouldn’t know, of course: you think I’m in control.



• • •



For the sake of argument, let’s assume that any person can be mostly described by a finite set of adjectives and that, were the individual elements of said set to be presented in the proper, perfect sequence it would make them, without the need for further elaboration, immediately able to identify that person , even if only in passing.

Let’s also assume that, at some given point in time, you’re the one being ascribed these particular taxa, whichever they may be. Of course, by definition, you have no say in the purpose, methodology or combinations that this amalgam creates; they will very likely be foreign to your own internal representation, even if sometimes there’s an overlap (and, by the way, you do know that the overlap is a coincidence, not an affirmation, right?)

Will you wear the words? Will it hurt to realize how unfair or incomplete they appear to be? Will it delight to discover how much more they seem to reveal? Will you care at all? Or will you ignore them and look at what was before they were uttered, before the miasma that birthed them, even?

We do this all time and never realise that to give them any importance, is a lie. This new image they create will only make your incompleteness, well… closer to being complete.

The universe doesn’t care about you; it isn’t good or evil.

It’s just indifferent.



• • •

Wütend, aber Schwach


SARCASMO OU SILÊNCIO as tais flores carnívoras nascidas de uma simples semente de repulsa regada na medida exactamente certa pela puta da doença de nunca ter conseguido aparentar ser quem sempre tinha achado ter merecido ser.



• • •

What To Do


— Look, I’m sorry. I am painfully aware that I ought to have gathered the courage or the patience to tell you to go fuck yourself, but I’m still not sure I ever will. Perhaps I find it painful or else, by now, simply moot. Clearly, I have not thought this through, seen that I’m not even sure that the distinction is important.

— Have you really just told me to go fuck myself?

— It doesn’t really matter anymore, I’m sure you’ll know what to do.



• • •

Cheap Paint


This mantra of “forgiving yourself no matter what”, is deranged; not only does it assume merit by default, but also (and this is the truly demented bit), tries (and fails) to erase the unforgivables, as if their gravity couldn’t possibly have a pull that’s worth considering.

It’s a thin coat of cheap paint, and it will inevitably peel off.



• • •

The Feel-Good Rethoric


Looking at this construction at a remove, it’s easy to see the trap. Setting out to love yourself because that’s the only way to gain love from others is a knot that undoes itself when pulled; needlessness as the tactic to get something one needs is impossible. But it’s an attractive emotional tautology in part because it keeps those who subscribe to it trapped in its hamster wheel, forever able to blame ourselves for wanting, when the fact of wanting is both the reason for never finding a relationship and the proof that we are not ready for it.

Helena Fitzgerald — There is no such thing as being ready for love.



• • •



It’s maybe a pity that we usually trust potent first impressions, programmed as we are to not question the paraphrasing of character, no matter how skewed or suspicious it may appear. If it is charming enough, we can’t even distinguish that which in hindsight is clearly a patchwork of unconnected traits which appear to be uniquely interesting.

By default, we give such persons the benefit of the doubt, I suspect, because there is something vaguely addictive to finding ourselves in the position of the ones being picked apart, analysed, dissected, and yes, cajoled; the immediate rush of a false sense of importance hides the true nature of what we desperately want to classify as an exchange, but is nothing of the sort.

It’s a con and we’re the mark, soon replaced by the next one. Since their capacity to understand the true depth of what they are borrowing is limited (were they to understand that depth, they wouldn’t need to borrow anything, to begin with, of course; it would have been built over time, unique, impossible to copy), quickly drained, they permanently need fresh new material to borrow from.

Later, our surprise at how easily we fall into this trap, at discovering that this isn’t a real person, but rather a palimpsest of fragments of poses, like years of concert flyers pasted upon each other on a phone booth, wearing off unequally over time like a meaningless and dysfunctional collage, and at how people like these, nowadays, are the very definition of success and aplomb, is wholly unjustified: we’re the ones feeding it.

All things considered, it could be worse, we could be them: assuming that they even get that far, it has to be a fucking calamity to realise that you have no character of your own.



• • •



— Oh boy, I’m an idiot.

— Well, that’s not a huge surprise then, is it? I mean you’ve known this for a while.

— Right, no surprise there, of course. What fascinates me is the consistency with which I keep going at it, since… well… forever.

— Maybe you’re hoping that outright persistence will trump observation, or something?

— Oh no, no matter how much I wish it were so much more than an ode to ineptitude, it just fucking isn’t. Oh well.



• • •

The Price of Revelation


All I know is that there is a door.

I don’t know where the door is exactly, but the one thing that gives me hope is knowning that whatever is on the other side of it, is nothing like anything on this side. It may be better, worse or else entirely different. Also, I am convinced that being unable to anticipate the pain is precisely what makes the prospect of opening it so terrifying.

Then again, that’s probably because I don’t really understand, can’t really understand, the insignificance of the imagined price to pay for the ἀποκάλυψις.

Still, it’s an exit. Or an entrance.

I can almost touch it now.



• • •



It’s difficult to admit that we all, without exception, regardless of how certain we are of the purity of our intentions, have occasionally plundered and fed on others.

It’s not commonly considered noble to do so, much less to flaunt it, true, but the fact that it afflicts us all, gives me some degree of consolation when instinctively distrusting the fervent affirmations of the pious.

I always thought I was being unfair, up until it dawned on me that the people worth paying attention to, are exactly the ones who talk to the predator in them, and have no, or little, illusions about their fate in the court of “pleasant manners”.

Not that I’m defending “radical candour”, that repugnant expression apparently meant to elevate “being an asshole” to a posture that’s acceptable and worthy of consideration, no.

Maybe I’m saying that unleashing the beast is fundamental, but only proper when you turn it into art.



• • •

É sempre assim


É tarde, não é?

Já é outra órbita, mais lenta, mais larga, mais esquisita, mais esquisita para ti, que ainda não chegaste ao pátio vazio (solarengo, sim, mas vazio), aquele onde te apercebes que afinal a tua órbita tem tanto de inevitável como de impossível, e que só pode mesmo ser assim.

É sempre assim.

Quem me dera conseguir explicar-te. Quem me dera conseguir não querer explicar-te, tanto. Quem me dera que não fosse assim.

Mas não, é sempre assim.



• • •



Não é como se me tivesse explicitamente indicado fosse o que fosse que me pudesse levar a supor que existia um qualquer diálogo que precisava de ser iniciado, mas a minha cabeça é solo fértil até para meros fragmentos de sementes dessas, reais ou imaginadas.

Se calhar são as hesitações, sobretudo as mais ínfimas, que me salvam de me rasgar em farrapos. Se calhar não querer saber está certo.

Se calhar é só isso que está certo.



• • •



In order to effectively solicit real sympathy, you will have to debase yourself by publicly opening the gates to your very soul, no matter how trivial or dark it may be.

To be clear, this is not an even exchange; what you are donating isn’t a kind of fuel that automatically triggers amity, it is a covert ransom which you will never be able to redeem.



• • •


Illustration by Moebius — L’incal Lumière


I completely forgot that you may have wanted to know when it’ll be over, so here: never, that’s when.

Calm down now; you know perfectly well that the solace of being convinced that you’re the one who’s in the right can never be so absolute as to guarantee that you have considered every single detail that may prove it otherwise.

And yes, you’re correct, it hasn’t mattered in a long time; just consider it the habitual reminder for the need for clarity in procedure.



• • •

De Olhos Fechados


Eu sei exactamente o que sempre quis, mas nunca soube que sabia.

É um truque, uma prestidigitação (ela diz que não, que “é um dique ou um fosso, só pode”), um obstáculo menor que quer ser vencido em nome de pequenos e pedestres louvores, um rito de passagem.

É muito difícil explicar-lhe que não quero saber, que não é para aí que estou a olhar.



• • •

The Infinite Loop

Rui Sanches — Sem Título (2012)


I get stuck sometimes.

I don’t mean stuck as in “frozen” but literally stuck in an infinite loop, processing the same set of mental steps, over and over, unable to detect an exit.

Yes, it sounds slightly mental but there’s a familiar tranquillity to it, much in the same way as the prospect of going to prison may be daunting at first, but there is still no denying that the idea of a prolonged isolation from initiative, or even reaction, could be a blessing of sorts; all of a sudden, only a very specific universe of possible steps exists, there are no external variables. What has to be done, but especially what can be done becomes very clear.

The curse of it all is that no matter whether I embrace or question the thought, it just becomes another infinite loop in the next order of magnitude.

Maybe it’s not that important.



• • •