sábado, maio 25, 2013


I can't face the white sheet in front of me. It's like facing my own fears, and I am actually plenty of them. I try to draw rivers, landscapes, paths on the paper, but everything remains in my mind. Impossible to elicit coherent lines all over the sheet, impossible to make up lines addressing those people I ever loved. That's the cue: love. You love throughout your whole life, and love always remains in some way. I've tried to drain love through writing, but then I realize it's childish, not to say useless. Love is the most stupid strength of the universe when it is incomprehensible. You love your children, your parents, your couple and your closest friends, but love is shapeless, so there's no way to put it into a flask and tag it. 

I often wish I could dust love off. Since I can't, I try to write about it. I ever scorn it. I even get naked and walk off my dreams. But loves is always clapping there, making fun of me, cruelly glancing at me. 

I've often wondered where love dwells in me. Perhaps in my blood, perhaps in my fingers while typing on the keyboard. No idea. But it must be inside me and now I feel it as a disease. 

I come back to the white sheet. There's no way to reflect what I feel. I decide to eat that piece of sheet. But I'm so jerk I don't realize I haven't written for years on a piece of paper, but on a white documents on the computer screen. I can hear again how love is laughing at me. Now I understand where love actually lives, not in me, but beyond that damned computer screen to which I confess my most intimate feelings every day. 

I switch off.

Frantz Ferentz, 2013

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