sexta-feira, 22 de maio de 2015

about the visit

she told me to go and create stories like i was stuck in time, even though she was the one stuck in a room. funny thing, though, she was also the one that knew how to share stories.

she brought us up to date, since the last time i had seen her, at the other hospital. how she got released and went home on a uber, only to be left at the bottom of a gigantic stair without being able to walk. at that moment she climbed her ass off and cried like a child. months were bad. her muscles screamed in pain at such a level that they had to take her to the hospital again, this time another one, closer to her home and far from the careless doctors she had met.

months were still bad. no one knows where anything comes from and her heart literally shatters. they give her morphine, they give her rivotril and at the end of the day she puts on a smile and explain different versions of the same story to anyone that wants to listen.

i could feel her kind of quiet. like a scream that died at the throat, hoarse. i can feel the kind of calm that the medicines bring and the painful clarity she thinks she has, and all that lies underneath that... the despair, the fear, the anxiety... and the hint of thrill. now that is a much bigger problem she will probably never overcome, and that will probably take her down under... the love for the misery. the appreciation for the pain and the notion that is beautiful to be broken.

i see all that and i can't really look away. and maybe i should... maybe i should tell her all about my new job, about the joy and sadness of failing at everything... but at some level i understand that she is right. i have to find my own story again. i have to remember who i am and be that... before all my loudness becomes the same desperate quiet i hear from her.

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