Once upon a time, in a place not far away from here, there was a person.
There had been happier times to tell about, and there had been sadder, but this story tells of one of other so many voids of their life.
Void times are, by concept, passionless moments. Both pain and love, although you may not think so, are the two most passionate feelings there will ever be in a person's life. It's the storm, the cyclone, it's the shock of two different things, dream and truth, and for it's touch, it's intense. Not the void.
The void is the high pressure, it's the calm that comes after. In the void nothing touches, for the simple fact that there is nothing to touch. Void is breeze.
The person was on the void. Passion had come and had gone so many times that there was nothing else left to feel, nothing but the -not patient nor anxious, empty only- wait for something to happen.
There was no will and no desire from them, only this faint expectation of someone who's tired of being broke and broken by all the ones she would expect to rescue them.
They liked to go to the sea and dream that there was another side where the things were better, where light liked to reflect different colours off the same objects, colours she could never paint on this shore, colours that would change it all. One day they wrote a letter and put her heart togerher in the envelope, even knowing that they were too young for it.
The letter never arrived.
So, without heart, they went after other sounds that could make them forget all the colours they were not allowed to have, and they went with the one person who had made them tear all the colours they had ever had in their life. But it didn't mind, cause they had no passion left, it was the anesthesia of an intense blue that is too far away to touch.
And in the dark corner of a bar a stranger laid. They had nothing to do with it, neither had the stranger, but yet neither of them could ignore that there was something, maybe a look -but who could tell?- telling that they may not kept being strangers for long. The person wouldn't move a finger for it, of course, cause their role was to wait for hopes to break by themselves, not running after it, it would be stupid, again. It was up to the stranger, if the stranger ever bothered to do so.
The stranger bothered.
They came, and they clunged, and they hugged and kissed and exchanged words -worlds-, for it was different from every single dream they had ever dreamed, and i don't mean that it was because it was better, but only because none of that had ever been thought. And when the boy came to bite their shoulder for the thousandth time, offering the same dream they had already lost and found so many times, they didn't say 'don't-- i like it', although they still liked and would ever like; they only said 'no', because they didn't want their colours back anymore, they were going to search other colours, unpainted.
They met the stranger again, some time later. And yet again, although they were afraid of it, and again, and again. They exchanged words -worlds- which's meaning the person didn't understand, and looks and touchs that they would only believe to understand. But did the stranger?
It was when they were put apart that the person really did. And they found the meaning of a lot of other things either, and found the meaning of loss, and the meaning of not wanting it. They found the meaning of come back.
Saudade mato, elu viria a dizer mais tarde. mato.
naypi:
