Skip to main content

The story that wasn't


She wrote for the first time in years, not in her language, but in the language of longing and missing and sighing. She wrote. She told a story. She lingered on to the story for days.  She told no one about it, read it to no one, except herself. What is a story no one can read? What is an unwanted story? A story that should never happen, should never be?

It haunted her. She did not read it anymore. It wasn`t necessary. It did not need further polishing. It was not going to be read anyway. She thought of it all the time. Was it a good story? Would it have become a good story had it been given a chance? Would it have become a tragedy? A Romeo and Juliet with deeper, however microcosmic, consequences?  Was she implying grandeur to something meaningless? A story about common things, common people, common mistakes….

How many stories have ever been written like this, she wondered in her sleepless hours. How many stories have ever been thrown away without the chance of being read, appreciated, depreciated. Where would all the stories untold go? All the words said and taken back, all the chances and  possibilities removed from ever being.

“I wrote something I’d like to read to you”, she saw herself saying. She imagined her crude words, possible mistakes, her own interpretations of past events, her deepest feelings and fears scrutinized by the third party somewhat involved. She turned on the computer and looked at the file’s icon floating on the desktop area. Her hand rested on the mouse for a few minutes, her eyes on the little Word icon. She dragged it decidedly and threw it in the trash bin.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The kind of person who lights candles

  I am the kind of person who lights candles. This is now, not then. it is a recently acquired habit, one that has done me well. I light up candles every day. In the beginning of each class I set up an intention, I focus and I light the candle. I ask myself to be the light, to be the container, not the conduit. I am now the kind of person Who walks barefoot on the grass of my backyard and lets herself shower in the improbable rain of Brasilia in May.  The four elements rest now on my desk making my therapist smile when told about them, making her proud of myself and my journey. I am the kind of person that feels the connection with the elements, and nature and the universe, so new. I am again a newborn being. And it is not the first time, I have once died and it’s no secret. This time, however, I did not have to die. I had only to shed the old skin, the one who served me no more. I am still the kind of person who looks in the mirror and who wonders who this new being is. This new self

No espelho

  Olhei hoje para o espelho e me vi mais serena, me enxerguei com mais leveza. Não que esteja de fato mais leve, eu acho. Ou será que estou? Tenho ainda infinitas incertezas e dúvidas aos milhares, mas a imagem que me olhou de volta do espelho, não me olha com tristeza, dor pânico.     A imagem que vejo nesse espelho é de     calma, no olhar certa paz, talvez de se entender humana, imperfeita e aceitar essa condição.     Aqui, deste lado que estou, me observando no espelho, sinto ainda o coração encolher como se uma mão o quisesse esmagar. Encolhe-se para sobreviver e expande-se em seguida. Ao encolher-se, a respiração dá uma pausa e uma bolha de cristal sobe em refluxo, pausando ali no meio da goela. Assim que pode, o coração retorna a seu pulsar, seu ir e vir. Permanecem ali as dúvidas, as exigências, as demandas, mas também os desejos de só ser, irresponsavelmente ser e atender a cada quimera. Porque a vida é curta! A vida é sopro!    E o outro? Os outros? Todos os outros?  É precis

Sobre os artistas - Para Bruno Sandes

  Créditos da imagem: Jacobs School of Music Marketing and Publicity