Strange to think that we’re all about just surviving, winning, paying bills, getting by, meeting people, answering calls, returning favors, making appointments, falling in love, telling the stories that are there to be told (so many, so unreal it seems), thriving, ‘making it’, stepping up to, stepping down, masturbating thinking of the impossible, taking a look from the distance. Taking a look from a distance, it makes more sense to simply vanish.
These are the words: “for to end yet again” Beckett wrote about. But one thing is to stage these words. It’s quite something else, to be pounded with this feeling over the head.
Every arrival, every departure, a tiny fragment of death. Yet, the idea of having to “be correct”, “behave correctly” so that we can flip out in our metaphorical lives is insane, yes, “follow the norm”, a voice says: “follow the norm” and take care of the bills and wondering where the next idea will come from: if it’ll ever come….If it will ever come.
27 April, another 27 April amongst so many 27th of Aprils that have gone by.
PS: A vida não é medida pela quantidade de vezes que respiramos, mas pelos momentos que nos tiram a respiração. Life is not measured by the amount of times you breathe but by the amount of times that they take your breath away. (George Carlin)