Sunday, February 21, 2010
I don't know if you can see
The changes that have come over me
In these last few days
I've been afraid
That I might drift away
I've been telling old stories, singing songs
That make me think about where
I've come from
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today
Now I have moved and
I've kept on moving
Proved the points that I needed proving
Lost the friends that I needed losing
Found others on the way
I have kissed the fellas and left them crying
Stolen dreams, yes, there's no denying
I have traveled hard, sometimes with conscience flying
Somewhere with the wind
Now I'm sitting here before the fire
The empty room, the forest choir
The flames have cooled, don't get any higher
They've withered, now they've gone
But I'm steady thinking, my way is clear
And I know what I will do tomorrow
When hands have shaken, the kisses float
Then I will disappear
(música linda de Dougie Maclean que fala muito desse momento na minha vida... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L8IwBlgxyss)
Monday, February 15, 2010
"He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy.
And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach.
By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone.
By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness.
I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad.
As if he might one day convince himself.
Or fool himself.
Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad.
I am not sad. I am not sad.
Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room.
He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all.
And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping.
And by the midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad." — Jonathan Safran Foer