Sitting On The Very Edge


How to wake up without hurt? Restart without horror? My sleep carried me to that kingdom where life is inexistent and I remain inert without passion. How to repeat, day after day, the incomplete fable, to bear the likeness of all rough things of tomorrow with the harsh things today? How to protect myself from wounds that tear in me the events, any event that resembles the earth and its purple madness? And the one more wound inflicted by myself every single hour – torturer of the innocent that I am not? No one answers, life is cruel.


To wake, To live by Carlos Drummond de Andrade





“So that’s how we live our lives. No matter how deep and fatal the
loss, no matter how important the thing that’s stolen from us – that’s
snatched right out of our hands – even if we are left completely
changed, with only the outer layer of skin from before, we continue to
play out our lives this way, in silence. We draw ever nearer to the
end of our allotted span of time, bidding it farewell as it trails off
behind. Repeating, often adroitly, the endless deeds of the everyday.
Leaving behind a feeling of insurmountable emptiness…
Maybe, in some distant place, everything is already, quietly, lost.
Or at least there exists a silent place where everything can
disappear, melting together in a single, overlapping figure. And as
we live our lives we discover – drawing toward us the thin threads
attached to each – what has been lost. I closed my eyes and tried to
bring to mind as many beautiful lost things as I could. Drawing them
closer, holding on to them. Knowing all the while that their lives
are fleeting.”
― Haruki Murakami

Western City (Remote View)


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us — if at all — not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men……

T.S. Eliot – The Hollow Men

From Pale Hands To Weary Skies


I love you most of all when joy
Flees from your oppressed brow,
When your heart is drowned in horror,
When the frightful cloud of the Past
Is spread out over your Present.

I love you when your large eyes shed
Tears as hot as blood, when
In spite of my hand which lulls you
Your unbearable pain comes through
Like a dying man’s death-rattle.

Taken from Madrigal triste ( Charles Baudelaire’s Fleurs du mal)