Português
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There is always the time for the passage of the horses. Despite your refusal, it arrives. It’s like feeling God. An impetuous and unexpected desire, which traverses and delineates the body’s topography. A scent of dust, a distant but captive sound. Until, suddenly, it disappears.
Live confined in a body that sometimes hears the silence, and others has the mouth full of words: a condition that creates an obsessive need to write everything. Work of a genetic determinism that precedes – a never-ending tale, as Clarice Lispector would say.
Holding life’s unbearable sadness is an arduous task. The rest of the world and myself have the compulsion to destroy everything we love the most.
I think the genetic residue helps (I come from a family of failed writers, but successful engineers and doctors) to effectively reconstruct my debris with applied dexterity, making this practice my injunction to enjoy. Spectres of myself that, when illuminated, are shameful, strange.
The proof of how words are the solid foundation to rethink the vigorous complexion of the horses, their overwhelming presence. An encounter with the real that makes me fearful, tormented by hunger: the essential key to the crossing.
