Equating without tarnishing Morris, Frida, or Nina
A brain that doesn't exercise its neural synapses, and doesn't inquire and pursue its whys, will never arrive at the whys of the answers. Or if it does, it will be a coincidence. Doing nothing is an answer, and there are no coincidences. Or there is whatever you conceive for yourselves. Circumstances either promote (or not) the learning we must do, about this great ultimate question, for me, what we came here to ask and how we are doing it. It would be ridiculous, childish, immature, to think that all internal work doesn't require focus, investigation, study, to discover the deepest motivations of the being, its natural inclinations toward this defect or that virtue, that our innate gifts should be abandoned to chance or individual circumstances. The work is ours, if we question ourselves, if we have the intention to understand the essential question: this self that affects the selves of others in the most varied contexts.
That guy, at that moment, left the bar, the school, the airport, the house, and, going down the stairs, the emotional turmoil of the moment, addressing the doorman, the clerk, his wife, his father, utters two words that come out like an implosion: I want to die, or else, I'm going to kill everyone here, or I just wanted a chance to show what I'm capable of, who knows, a second chance that translates into the real reason that brought me to this dimension of life's experience, this game, or looking at his wife he says, trying to narrow his thoughts so that the speech doesn't lose coherence and gains the impedance it needs, I don't love you anymore, I look at you, I know why I stayed with you that day, that year, that Friday, I still remember the color of your dress or your pants, I still remember that it was raining, that you had lost your innocence, the train or the book or your patience, that the kiss I gave you or the hug you gave me was complete and everything I needed at that moment, but I also know, now that I look at you, why I stopped doing it, maybe it was the weariness of the years, the weight of the weekends, the routine between us, the silences or the chatter, or perhaps the friends, or the lack of friendship, or maybe it was the tenderness I gave to others, or the exhaustion of not understanding myself, or maybe it was the thunderstorm that existed within me from my sad childhood, or some absurdity that I could not foresee or prevent, that I did not want to do it or give it continuity, and looking at his face, hers, the other's, my own, saying that after all my love grew or exploded in parts, or disappeared from the scene, or how could I love you if I do not do it with myself, or that your body can no longer give me fulfillment or fulfillment to a dream that was born new, anew, bigger, smaller, more urgent, to a recurring thought, to a lack of satisfaction and everything I say, or that I had not told you or that I want to tell you could reach you like a buoy to a castaway and that, instead of killing you the illusion, or the cleverness or the simulation or the fantasy or the feeling of hope that you brought like that Sunday when I met you, instead of killing us or compromising our relationship, our life, the well-measured routine neglected by you or by both,were to save us from the lies that get tangled up in us, like brooms full of piassavas or mops that become useless and worn, rose thorns that you never considered touching, stepping on, running your fingers over, and instead of hurting you, hurt me, hurt us both, and would need, from now on, to study all the alternative, random, available ways of not hurting you, or of making both of us or everyone ill, when I breathe out the words without having first passed them through the sieve of feeling, that what I feel is not only the fruit of insomnia, or irritability, of ignominy, or bad luck, that what I tell you now, and which has the power to remove structure, alter futures, thin the hope we cultivate, could be the seed of clarity and understanding, just like saying apple and having it be green and sweet as I like, without the element of unpredictability that life brings, a creature that, even without being made of silk, can yield, or change my appetite or the thirst with which I looked at you, or offering you the word bunch of grapes and not having a grain or seed in them to bother your molars, or telling you that I still like to see you smile, despite not feeling the passion that once happened at the touch of your hand, when the hairs on your arms scraped, unintentionally, on purpose, unwillingly, randomly, my back, my earlobe, my neck, when your hands seemed to have the necessary size for the hugs that had my name on them, and fit, fingers to fingers, in the good part of life together, telling you, instead, that you are even more handsome or beautiful, that you are no longer so attractive, or so stubborn or so arrogant, or that you lie less or that you always tell the truth so as not to hurt yourself or that you use manipulation to get what you want, or telling you that life will bring another way of seeing the matter, the problem, of solving this equation of talking,of using dialogue as a way to move forward, more resolved, that the silences that were once consented to and read horizontally are now unwelcome and incomprehensible, that I still have with me, serving as a bookmark the flower you picked for me, that Monday, when I believed my life had no meaning and, when each petal of the flower you picked for me brought a broader meaning to that sentence, and you reformulated everything again, you brought the opposite and I saw that it was this side that was right, the right in me, which was not even needing to say words, or saying them after savoring and thinking, how beautiful are the words of all dialects when they express exactly what we think and feel without the intention of deceiving, without the vanity of becoming a powerful refrain or a haiku. I return all the cues to myself, without crushing anything, still whole, still raw, your speech in my mouth, the words spoken, frivolous or intense, your mouth formulating and debiting words and phonemes that would condense onto a sheet, onto a whole page, into the diary section of this year, perhaps of this day or another, wanting to be integrated and thought about, analyzed and reformulated, and stirring my emotions, for we all feel emotions in our own way, as we learned them as children, and by taking the trouble to know the impact you had on me, by telling me all this, by doing all this to you, I could look in the mirror at myself, this you that I carry, that you carry everywhere, break it, wash away the makeup, the mask, the pretense, remove the protective cream, and say here I am, here I am, all of me, I integrate myself and I am this, and I accept and love myself as I am, or the opposite, which would be to say that I don't like what I felt or what I feel, or that I don't want to go back to to feel this part of myself, this involuntary response, this storm of mixed and misunderstood emotions, which, as the other said, understanding is halfway to resolving, like a zip code that is halfway to the right direction of things, and, if I remember correctly, all things can and should be named, even when it hurts, especially if it hurts, even if it's the truth, especially when it's the truth. There are no mirrors that return nothingness.
Nothingness, like the death of things and people, is the great invention, after the invention of man and his petty or grand, small or precious need to find the core, the summit, the apex of the real reason for disagreements among human beings. In the kingdom of plants and minerals, in the kingdom of animals, this apex is something like now, the already, the present, being, and to be, it is enough to be and make oneself exactly as we are, without masks, without embellishments, without the need to choose what best suits this answer. I'm not abolishing rationality; I'm saying that it's through rationalization and learning about who we are that we gain the added value of changing the course, the directions, the paths, the values, the problems, the complications that arise from a lack of study, clarity, and truth that add up in the equation of relationships—any relationship, and to begin with, with ourselves, this way of looking at others and criticizing them without first practicing it within ourselves.
And so, I pay attention to Morris Albert's composition, this composition I'm passionate about. Every note, every chord, every musical interval conveys what I've always tried to convey to myself: that life is a carousel of emotions and feelings, not all good, not all bad, so vivid, so cruel, so tedious and boring, or so rewarding and impulsive. The equation becomes simpler when we set aside our differences and embrace truth, the idea of not being the same, and using truth as our preferred dialect for understanding and common cause. And then, I hear Nina Simone's voice, through Frida's fingers. Everything Morris said, and everything I say or want to say, is that the expression of the affections that move and move us can be the most beautiful art of all, revealing the human being through its most faithful side, through its dualities but whole, without having to omit any of its parts. And that the internal dialogue with the self leads us to this exercise of changing ourselves for the better, for the good of the greater number, always starting with ourselves. Because I love myself, I can love others. In the most human and healthy way, without hiding, without veils, without makeup, without denying the parts that live within me. And the river of life widens its banks until it reaches its own back and sees that, when it was a drop, it was already a sea, that being a sea, it has greater creative power, but that nothing can nullify its essence of being whole and surrendering to what it came to do. To love itself and its other parts. To others. Who are all part of this drop that grew into a river and became a sea and joined the sky and, looking at it, could reflect stars. These stars, in my sky, in my mirror, are the ancestors, those before us who carried us on their backs and watch us from the sky, waiting for the game of life to be fulfilled, from the smallest to the most integral rule: when I take care of myself, when I improve myself, I am caring for others, I fulfill myself to see others fulfilled. I am the example, not to create prototypes, but to fulfill myself, and when I do so, I am fulfilling the collective good. And to conclude what I believe to be extensive and with parts to contemplate, that I am like this, imperfect and authentic, that I allow myself these oddities, I would say that we become ill in life when our emotions and thoughts are not balanced, when we are unaware of or prefer not to study the reason for our inglorious emotions and thoughts. Illness is the deformation that adds no comma to the collective good. So, I prefer to end with the piece of the pie in the middle where I told myself, before I gathered the courage to tell you, that I have been thinking a lot and feeling just as much and that I do not regret that our ruler does not have standardized measures in affections, because if I miss you in the present, I can still change what I feel, through the thought that I allow myself and say I miss you and, in the end, I remember Represas while he sang the witch and went down the wall with his back, and with the glass of coke and whiskey between his fingers, the ice cubes sounding the continuation of contentment in his voice, whispering the verses that I kept in my pocket to recite to you now, while Miguel Nuñes wrote on the keyboard notes and the jazz drummer attributed, with the drumsticks, the dryness that mixed the sweet and sad sound of the keys with the vocalist's chilling voice, the precision, the notch, the effectiveness and the emotion of how much, looking at scene, I would miss that constant presence that you were in my life, wizard, having come to nestle beside me, in that intense and intelligent way in which you transformed the nostalgia of the past into the promising future of rounding and, of the internal dialogue in which I weave the words so that you can, with your multimeter, measure the intention of the volte faces that you made in my life, the resistance in omies of my capacity for unconditional love and the invisible current of amperes that unites us, despite everything, of this not wanting, of this believing so mine!
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