Oliver didn’t know how to love

The sun emerges from the top half of the buildings, as if emanating from them. The angled light, though, exhibits the darkness of their bottom part and of the street. How can such a dark and heavy foundation support such a light and shiny top? How can such a sinister core bear such ripe fruits? How can love prevail on such a melancholic heart? With a mellow background music, gloomy thoughts arose. Can one’s core be broken and still give birth to such beautiful sentiments?

These questions bothered him as he sat in the local café and looked out the window. He was torn. Oliver knew himself, knew how broken he was. He knew. And yet, he thought, he could love. He could love like no one else could. As broken as it was, he could pick up the pieces, glue them together, and give his heart to someone, fully, as if he had a spare. But what, then, was he left with? Well, nothing, it seemed. Nothing. And in this nothingness he lived his days, not knowing what to do with himself. Not knowing how he got there, not knowing who he was. Only knowing that he loved. That much he knew well. But not your typical romance movie kind of love, no. Not that mellow shit. Not that throwing up rainbows kind of love. No. He loved more deeply than that, messier than that. He loved like the broken adult he was. He loved with all the quirks and paranoias of someone who’s had heartache.

Outside, he saw a couple kissing. How cliché. Their eyes crossed but didn’t meet in the middle. They kissed but didn’t exchange a part of their soul. They said love words that were empty. But how did Oliver know that? How did he? After all, Oliver didn’t know how to love. He just did it. Maybe that was the secret, just doing it without knowing. But that was just something he told himself. Oliver didn’t know how to love. He only knew how to be broken.

Oliver blushed. He looked around in the café to make sure no one saw it and hid behind his coffee cup. He was thinking about her. How every time they talked he smiled like a teenager. How they could go on and on for ages about every possible subject. How he missed her. How he couldn’t see her as often as he felt like it (which was every day). Oliver loved her. Yes, he loved her. This was the first time he noticed it. He loved her. He loved her silly humour, her silly smile, her silly crush. He loved her eyes. But he couldn’t have her every day. He couldn’t. He was broken.

Oliver was not the kind of broken people say they are, when they’re just not happy about an aspect of themselves. He was the real deal. The one they warn people about. He was really broken inside. How he knew? He just did. No one could have that much pain if they were whole. No one could have such a messy life, such a messy way of loving. No one that was whole could see the darkness within love. The darkness whole people try so hard not to see. The darkness of sacrifice. The darkness of jealousy. The darkness of truly giving yourself to someone else and forgetting who you are. Who was he? Who was he before he loved? What did Oliver become when he gave himself, so deeply, to the one he loved? And how come could they not just have each other? Truly possessing someone, in fact, only happens when you let them go. Another cliché, he thought. He was full of those these days.

Cliché. What a fucking cliché. Sitting in a bohemian café, thinking about how broken he was. What a fucking cliché. That doesn’t matter. She knew he was broken. She knew, deep down. That’s what she loved about him. He was a little bird she could tend to while she ignored her own shit. Her own shit. What was it? He didn’t know. She was secretive that way. Or maybe they just didn’t see each other enough for that to appear more clearly. Her own shit.

That same day, as Oliver walked back home, he saw a tree. In its glorious height, the tree didn’t know who it was. The tree didn’t know anything, it just was. It was there. It had always been there. But Oliver just noticed it that day. He noticed how that tree had been there probably his entire life. How that tree was like a living rock. A safe harbour in the middle of the storm. How that tree represented one of the containers of his heart. Yes, one of them. He had multiple. They tend to appear whenever he falls in love with something else. Every single time, he could feel it growing inside him uncontrollably, becoming another living part of him that would for ever stay there, a living rock. Just like that tree. And just like that tree, it has probably been there his entire life. Until one day he noticed it. Like today.

How many containers can a heart possess? How many things can a person love? How can you be broken yet have so much space to safeguard that love? Those questions would forever haunt him. Forever. Until he took his last breath.

When he went to bed, that day, Oliver took his last awaking breath for the day. He was enveloped with the dream world, where things are clearer than ever, yet so unattainable. During the last seconds of conscious unconsciousness, he thought of her. Of the love he gave her. Of the part of his broken self he so willingly gave her. How could she still want another life? How could he not want anything else? That was the last question he posed that day. Then, during his awakening that could only happen when he slept that deeply, when he dreamt that intensely, could he know the answer. The answer was that there was no other way. He could only give himself so deeply because he knew he had nothing to lose, broken that he was. He could only love so joyfully after having seen the darkness creeping up on him. He could only be himself when he was with her. With them. With all he loved. In this sweet contradiction, Oliver dreamt the night away. The next morning, though, like every morning before that and every morning after, he started questioning his love again. Why? Because that was his nature. Because that was the only way he knew how. Because that was him. And because of who he was, he loved her. But did she? Well, all we know is that Oliver didn’t know how to love.

Saudade

It burns.

It rips the heart out.

Leaves a void.

Saudade.

 

The urge to jump on a plane,

to run for miles and miles

to overcome every obstacle

just so I can get to you.

 

Saudade.

 

The wind whispers your name

while the rain marks the beat.

The pulse of my vanes

screams :

 

Saudade.

 

When do I get to see you?

When do I get to talk to you?

When do I get to kiss your lips

and hold you in my arms?

 

When do I get to run towards you

to see your face, to….

sigh.

When do I get to?

 

Saudade.

“The life of the animal is only a fragment of the total life of the universe”. Then what about suicide? A fragment of the universe would be destroying itself? No, not destroying; it couldn’t destroy itself even if it tried. It would be changing it’s mode of existence. Changing… Bits of animals and plants become human beings. What was one day a sheep’s hind leg and leaves of spinach was the next part of the hand that wrote, the brain that conceived the slow movement of the Jupiter Symphony. And another day had come when thirty-six years of pleasures, pains, hungers, loves, thoughts, music, together with infinite unrealized potentials of melody and harmony had manured an unknown corner of a Viennese cemetery, to be transformed into grass and dandelions, which in their turn had been transformed into sheep, whose legs had in their turn been transformed into other musicians, whose bodies in their turn…

– Point Counter Point, Aldous Huxley

We stand

“They kissed good bye.”

Pencil breaks.

“They kissed good bye. Life does that sometimes, you know. You love more than you think capable, but the end is near.”

Sips a chocolate liquor.

“Yes, the end is near. Near sometimes takes forever, sometimes not.”

Reflects on endings… doesn’t accept it has already come. Scratching head. Small sip. Re-reads.

“This time, near has already passed, faster than thought possible. In fact, near has come and gone so fast that it all just feels like a dream: it took forever while happening, but passed in the blink of an eye after gone. That’s how ending love feels. No matter when, it’s always like a lifetime or a second ago. But that’s love, you know?

Your heart gets broken. Yes, every single time. One way or the other, at least.”

Feels like another sip. Needs something else with it.

“It comes and goes as it pleases. Doesn’t respect time, age, color, religion or the like. It devastates. Like a tsunami. Heavy. Destructive. Beautiful. Unique. Every time unique. That’s difficult to understand.”

Turns on the heat. Sharpens pencil. Too much, it broke. Closes the curtains. No light can come in anymore, no judgment. Order of things was actually different.

Pours half of the last can of beer. Familiar smell, now with a whole new purpose. Looks at drinks… sighs. Sipping, we can do it.

“It can be destructive, alright. Something made to be so beautiful, with such dreadful characteristics. Something with such pure intentions and poor judgment. Something so…”

Has no clue of how to finish sentence. Sips are no longer counted.

“Gifts. People. Moments. All that is desired is… it doesn’t matter. Desire does not leave the imagination, anyway.

Desire of the new, exciting, refreshing, revitalizing. Desire leads you nowhere. If somewhere, to the doom.

Desire of happiness: the most dangerous of all! It affects your partner, children, parents, closest friends and most fierce enemies. Desire kills you.

Hope kills you.

But hope is something else entirely.

Talk about drugs!

What’s fashion takes you places. To the bad or to the good. What’s fashion saves you.

If you live your true self, must you succumb to desire, passion, hope… must you succumb to life itself. For life is no more than a dream, and a dream is no more than the possibility of life.”

Reflects upon things written.

“Tears rejoice, for tears rinse. Suffering evaporates, though a salt bond is formed forever. Tears hurt.

The breath is but an attempt to stand over what’s happened. Such doing is believed impossible, as time only progresses. Where do we stand, then?

We stand in he arms of a loved one, in the words of kindness, in the hope of a better future, in the vain words of a failed poet, in the hidden feelings of a successful figure, in the infinite spaces between the universes; we stand tall.

We stand after others have fallen around us, we stand on top of mountains conquered, we stand for what’s right, just; we stand for the possibility of error. We stand against hypocrisy, after all aren’t we all just products of our own nature? We stand for the right of being human, for the humanity of being us. We stand for ourselves, we stand for each other. We stand.

May the most harsh of winters and the most burning of summers, may the spring flourish what should stay and the autumn take what’s done – may them win against what’s human, but may humanity be it’s purest.

Shall we fall before what’s handed, may that be brave. Shall we die upon disease, may that be in our most perfect health. Shall the world beat us, may that be after we have beaten the world.”

Lápis

A vida é permanente, a história é lápis.
A vida é permanente;
a memória é lápis.
A vida escreve e fica,
o lápis
apaga
aponta
reescreve
rabisca
pensa…
o lápis é livre.

Qualquer coisa!

Corria mais que imaginava ser humanamente possível. À direita o muro mais alto que já vira, à esquerda o perfume mais doce. O contraste era perturbadoramente maravilhoso, enchia meus sentidos com certezas que despertavam a curiosidade de ser incerto. Cada falha no cimento me remetia à imagem de uma pétala que exalava o perfume. Na verdade, os olhos não alcançavam as flores. Mas meu olfato apalpava cada fibra e percebia cada vibração que formava as diversas cores cintilantes. O pólem enchia meus ouvidos e o cimento meus pulmões, numa sintonia que cantarolava o ninar de minha mãe.

Embalado por essa sinfonia misteriosa, corria. O tempo parecia não existir apesar de ser o propulsor das minhas pernas. Não as sentia. Me vi na beira de um precipício gramado, o muro continuava e o perfume se intensificava. As pernas, estáticas. Precisava continuar. O único caminho aparente era um arbusto de espinhos.

Cordas aveludadas de cetim emaranhadas entre si emanavam espinhos de luz e fluíam como ondas, suaves e arrebatadoras, atravessando o abismo do oculto com graça. Era tentadoramente deliciosa a ideia de surfar em sua crista, mas o perigo era iminente. Eu temia. Temia me apegar demais àquela dualidade encantadora. Cedi.

No primeiro passo já consegui sentir o êxtase do fogo que ardia e aliviava ao mesmo tempo. Seu fogo era mais quente que mil sóis e purificava o ar enquanto queimava. Uma brisa fresca também brigava por espaço, incitando as chamas e curando as queimaduras.

Tudo apagou. Acordei.

Artigo comentado: “Equation can predict momentary happiness”

O artigo de Melissa Hogenboom publicado pela BBC News em 4 de agosto de 2014 conta como uma pesquisa publicada no PNAS Journal encontrou uma equação matemática capaz de prever felicidade momentânea. Leia o artigo completo em http://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-28592838 .

Como uma estudante de humanas sem nenhum conhecimento matemático e sem as ferramentas certas no cérebro pra entender as coisas logicamente, e ainda como uma pessoa que não enxerga a estatística pura com bons olhos, vou dizer que tenho muitas ressalvas quanto a essa pesquisa. Irei enumerar algumas que me vêm à cabeça no momento.

Primeiro de tudo, vamos à controversa estatística. Na minha humilde opinião, estatística pura serve para absolutamente nada. Você pode provar qualquer coisa com estatística, inclusive provar duas coisas opostas. Como você prova duas coisas opostas? Não teria que apenas uma ser verdadeira? A partir disso você já começa a desconfiar. Estatística é uma coisa extremamente relativa e, a meu ver, nada objetiva. Vai sempre depender de quais variáveis se tá considerando, e em muitas pesquisas por aí se vê variáveis importantes sendo completamente descartadas apenas para se chegar no resultado desejado. A própria física faz isso o tempo todo, como se vê na CNTP (Condições Normais de Temperatura e Pressão) que nos segue em todos os exercícios. A minha opinião é de que a estatística tem que sempre vir seguida de uma análise antropológica/sociológica/filosófica/psicológica (ou qualquer coisa do tipo, a depender do caso) para ser válida.

Dito isto…

Baseada em reflexões pessoais e discussões que já tive sobre o assunto, é muito complicado (se não praticamente impossível) medir a felicidade de alguém. Primeiro teríamos que definir o que significa felicidade, e só isso já lhe renderia anos de pesquisa, discussões e reflexões para se chegar numa resposta que você possa defender com propriedade, sem a possibilidade de mais tarde mudar de opinião. Então para efeitos de argumentação, vamos mudar a palavra utilizada para “alegria” no lugar de felicidade.

Nas “CNTP do ser humano”, por assim dizer, concordo que as boas expectativas possam aumentar a alegria de alguém, pelo simples fato de tais expectativas, por si só, gerarem um sentimento agradável a quem as sente. Mas o que acontece quando essas expectativas não são atendidas? Digamos, novamente apenas para efeito de argumentação, que em 50% das vezes elas sejam atendidas. Então em apenas metade das vezes a alegria foi de fato maior por conta das boas expectativas. Na outra metade das vezes, estas altas expectativas não foram atendidas e a pessoa foi decepcionada após o fato em questão ocorrer, gerando apenas uma alegria momentânea e um descontentamento que não ocorreria caso não houvesse nenhuma expectativa desde o início.

A matemática é uma ótima ferramenta para facilitar vários aspectos de nossas vidas e a estatística, utilizada de maneira correta, também pode ser muito útil. Porém nem tudo se pode calcular com precisão. O ser humano é um animal extremamente complexo e suas reações difíceis de prever. Os argumentos acima, assim como qualquer argumento, podem ser vistos tanto de maneira boa quanto de maneira ruim. Em condições controladas como as apresentadas, há quem acredite que a alegria gerada pelas altas expectativas compensa de alguma forma a decepção das vezes em que as mesmas não são atendias, assim como há quem pense o contrário. Mas o fato é que não vivemos em condições controladas. Interagimos o tempo todo não só com o ambiente que nos cerca, mas também com outros indivíduos e com as mudanças que estes fazem nos ambientes. Com os avanços tecnológicos que encontramos hoje, não é possível prever quando nossas expectativas serão atendidas e é muito difícil prever exatamente como nosso redor nos afetará. Portanto, é preciso analisar caso a caso para se chegar a uma conclusão sobre as expectativas serem algo positivo ou negativo na vida de um indivíduo.

ad infinitum

É senso comum saber que quanto mais descobrimos, mais dúvidas temos. Mas quando buscamos respostas para quaisquer questionamentos e nos deparamos assim com ainda mais dúvidas, sentimos isso na pele e conseguimos realmente compreender o que isso significa.

No momento em que decidimos expandir nossa mente, aquele insight em que percebemos que precisamos saber mais, aquele segundo em que as coisas viram e vamos em busca do primeiro conhecimento tendo o próprio conhecimento como único objetivo, este momento é como o big bang da consciência. Um único momento decisivo onde tudo começa, e a partir disso o único caminho possível é a expansão.

Assim como é impossível voltar no tempo sem o big crunch, é impossível saber menos sem a morte. E assim como não podemos provar o que acontecerá após o primeiro, o mesmo se aplica ao segundo. A única certeza que podemos ter é que iremos buscar cada vez mais até que algo nos pare, e que esse conhecimento nunca poderá ser tirado de nós.

Creio que a (in)finitude do universo é tão duvidável quanto a do conhecimento, e ambos estão intimamente ligados. Enquanto houver universo, haverá algo a se aprender, a se descobrir. Sendo assim, se há um fim no (ou do) universo, há de haver também o do conhecimento. Mas até onde podemos enxergar e constatar, as possibilidades (estas sim) são infinitas.

Obviamente quanto mais procuramos, mais necessidade sentimos de procurar. O principal é tentar manter a sanidade – ou será que não? Talvez somente não deixar que sejamos pegos. Afinal, o sanatório não nos dá de mãos beijadas os meios para alimentar nossa loucura. E que me matem antes que tirem meu direito de conhecer!