Death, go backwards

 Sometimes, I think I've felt everything I had to feel. That nothing else can disappoint or cheer me up. It is not a logical or even illogical thought. It's a sensation. But wrong. Because life continues to hurt and after the wound, to heal. And after the crust, to forget. Many times, I find that I don't feel the ability to be moved, to turn myself inside out, neither for man nor for nature.

And I'm wrong again and again, roundly. It seems to me that after a few good slaps of life - there is the scapegoat of life with a broad back - I am a patchwork quilt, which will open on the opposite side to the concerted one. Certainly, winter contributes to these depressing and somewhat nostalgic feelings. Christmas ditto. And even though I'm not a Catholic, I'm a good person who likes my family and sees it diminishing. Of course, the fault (which never dies single) lies with the PDI, which selects people and operational bodies with deadlines. The list is being released and I feel cornered. I don't know if it's the fear of my turn - And it keeps us leaning against the wall, I also have my name there, although it is, and above all, invisible to me. Someone said, I don't know who, but I bet a great thinker afraid of being wrong, that death instead of killing us quickly, kills slowly through those we love and lose. That we're fading into the memories that they have – had? - from us. And that when there is only one being who loves us and that we love, we will already feel more dead than alive. At Christmas, I become aware of the huge list of the disappeared, some by the PDI, others by the PDV and many by the PDA. What does it matter in what form they add up, because they add up and, disappearing, take essential parts of us. I said essential because these are the ones that are needed for the body to have the will to walk among the material wreckage. And the fucking nostalgia is so much that I see the river that the character of Go where your heart takes you, the grandmother, describes.

I almost drown. And the wreckage or waste that runs through it from the source to the mouth begs on the shores for moorings. As if they were anchors that, once cast, are fixed eternally. Oh, it would go perfectly with the flower dresses of my childhood! And who knows, maybe if influenced by Wilhem Stenhammar - Notturno, suggestion of Ecg, which is what I hear at the moment, the poem by João Cabral de Melo Neto - Morte e vida Severina (which Francisco Oliveira posted along with a photo of some cemetery graves), if the Geography of Felipe Juaristi posted by Amélia also contributed, if Eli's Sophocles holds me by the heart, but I feel bent by a weight. That could be that of the man with a pain of Paul Leminski. 

Christmas happens for the children, but then they grow up and Christmas comes to be seen as that Christian picture of the supper without mutations. But with mutations. If all the apostles were flesh and blood, and that picture a moment of eternity, year after year there would be vacant seats at the table, from 13 to 12, from 12 to 11, from 11 to 10 until they disappeared from the supper, as if they had never existed, except at that moment, when anyone still had some memory of having happened. Christmas is the day to recognize survivors, to take stock of the wreckage. And colored cellophane papers, and ribbons of all textures, bows that adorn the illusion of well-wishing, that I always want them and more than I pay homage to them. Who get sick and leave without warning, who escape us without notifications, or scolding or kissing goodbye. And some die, leaving and others depart, dying, and for each one of them an acute pain - hopefully the pain that takes our breath away - that of revolt, that of anger at the lack of respect or consideration that death has for them and for us. 

It may just be a selfish pain, that of not knowing how to exist without spectators, without spotlights, without applause, without a stage, without the anima of others licking our ego. But it's a love you and let me go, I love you, but it has to be, I love you, but I can't stand life anymore in a daily dose. But all in silence. Without saying anything. Speechless. No balances. 

And it must be because I feel less revolted after the words written here - they stay here, I never touch them again, they will no longer have the power to stay alive in me, but here - that I announce an online request to death, as a warning, so that next Christmas she doesn't remember to appear out of nowhere to steal more souls and places from me, I warn her (asking, almost begging, on her knees, urging deferral, do you see?)  that when you have to come, don't come in black.Look at the white, which is so much more peace, and the color should look good on you, comes in white, without blemishes or dark circles under your eyes, and it makes you announce. With lifetimes of advances. Do not use a human watch, which not even centuries can lessen the pains of loss. Wear what you want, look, general anesthesia is a beautiful form of plaft... To address the issue, or gas, or whatever, I leave it up to you, but don't come to me quietly, so that I don't understand you, so that I don't even notice it and then I feel violated, revolted by your usurpation. Silence doesn't match your outcome. Make it happen in a wise cry, so that I too can scream the pain you leave me with (so that in your cry you drown out the screams of the (non)conformists. Dunno. Rid the children's Christmas of this spirit of balance sheet of the living, of counting the dead, damn it!

Okay, now I've dotted the i's, I should be able to spread it out. 

And now, nothing could be better, to divinely match my request, Wilhem Stenhammar - Piano Concerto No. 2 in D minor, Op. 23 - II. Scherzo (Molto vivace) accompanies me in this collection of feelings less worthy of being shared. And I feel less nostalgic, or less disgusted by the nostalgia and longing for my dead.