Diário de um ladrão

“Roubei. Troquei as notas, e ninguém notou. Mexi-te na mala e nem reparaste. Ah, se pudesses ver como te enganei. Como te roubei. Como te… menti. Sim, menti-te. É pena, é não poder dizer a ninguém, que roubei. O que é um pouco chato. Gostava de me poder orgulhar de te ter roubado. Mas roubei-te a ti, o meu melhor amigo. E contudo não posso contar a ninguém.
Mas merecias! Irritas-te me e tiveste o que merecias! Sabes disso não sabes? É bom que saibas. Porque tu, meu amigo, já devias saber que ninguém se mete comigo e se safa sem consequências! Feris-te me o orgulho publicamente, e roubei-te. Tiveste o que merecias. Realmente é pena não poder dizer a ninguém que te roubei. E se disser a ti terei que te desenvolver o que tirei.
Ouvi dizer que na antiga Grécia, os ladroes, se conseguissem roubar alguém, seriam dados como hábeis e ágeis. Se fossem apanhados, cortavam-lhes as mãos. Não sei se será verdade, ou mais uma história do Hermano Saraiva. Mas enfim. Considero-me único por te ter enganado, mentido, roubado. Feris-te o meu orgulho com o que disseste antes!
E eu nunca te magoei a ti? Se me roubasses sempre que me engano… Se me mentisses sempre que te apetece… Se enganasses sempre que pudesses… Não, não fui justo. Roubei-te, e estou arrependido. Sim muito. Muito e muito e… E depois? Roubei-te e esta feito. Que se lixe, esta feito.
Ah, se pudesses ver como te roubei…"

Música para ouvir: Pixies - Where is my mind

Ooooooh - stop

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse
But there's nothing in it
And you'll ask yourself

Where is my mind [3x]

Way out in the water
See it swimmin'

I was swimmin' in the Carribean
Animals were hiding behind the rocks
Except the little fish
But they told me, he swears
Tryin' to talk to me to me to me

Where is my mind [3x]

Way out in the water
See it swimmin' ?

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse
If there's nothing in it
And you'll ask yourself

Where is my mind [3x]

Ooooh
With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Ooooh
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Ooooh
Ooooh

(Nota pessoal: Ouvi está música pela primeira vez, no Verão passado. A onda da música levou me logo. Ao ouvi-lá esqueço tudo, deixo me levar e meto o som o mais alto possível. Dou por mim a dançar de um lado para o outro a dizer para mim a letra que acabei por decorar, já que é tão simples. Faz me sentir como se não existisse nada, até a música acabar e voltar a realidade.)

As frases feitas em publicidade dão nisto

“Não há duas pessoas iguais”. Pelo menos é o que o slogan do Banif diz. Não será esta teoria, um pouco frustrante? Esta frustração que falo, provém de outra frase que, tal como esta, afirma que: “Existe uma pessoa certa para cada pessoa no mundo”.
Vendo bem, uma teoria, não fica bem com a outra. Se há apenas uma pessoa certa, se a perder estarei condenado para sempre? Já que não há duas pessoas iguais? Não serão estas frases, no mínimo, desmotivadoras?
Porque, posso dizer que nada é mais frustrante do que pensar que perdemos uma pessoa que nós é chegada, a pessoa certa para nós, e que não há outra igual no mundo todo. Não será suicida viver, depois de quem mais gostamos, morrer? Depois da sua hora chegar, e dizermos o adeus eterno?
Um dia ouvi uma história de dois deuses (gregos, já que a história surgiu na época dos deuses do Olimpo). Estes deuses desceram a terra para ver como vivia a raça humana. Ao chegarem como mendigos e sem ninguém conhecer a verdadeira identidade deles, todos lhes recusaram estadia. Mesmo os que mais tinham lhes recusaram o mínimo de dinheiro que podiam dispensar. Indignados, os dois deuses foram apenas aceites por um casal idoso que pouco ou nada tinha, mas que os recebeu como irmãos. Perante esta prova de bondade e dedicação, os deuses revelaram-se e deram ao casal um desejo a sua escolha. Estes desejaram apenas poderem morrer ao mesmo tempo. Que um não tivesse de suportar o mundo sem a presença do outro.
Ouvi esta história quando era pequeno, e sempre me surpreendeu. Na altura, pela possibilidade de um desejo, qualquer que ele seja. Hoje, e a volta deste tema da pessoa certa, pergunto-me se o desejo deles não é o verdadeiro sonho de todos os apaixonados? Morrer ao lado de quem mais se ama, para não suportar o mundo sem a sua paixão e companhia.

Discurso memorável: Scent of a Woman - Al pacino

Trask: Mr. Sims, you are a cover-up artist and you are a liar.
Slade: But not a snitch!
Trask: Excuse me?
Slade: No, I don't think I will. This is such a crock of shit.
Trask: Mr. Slade, you will watch your language. You are at the Baird School now, not a barracks. Mr. Sims, I will give you one final opportunity to speak up.
Slade: Mr. Sims doesn't want it. He doesn't need to labeled, "...still worthy of being a 'Baird Man.'" What the hell is that? What is your motto here? "Boys, inform on your classmates, save your hide. Anything short of that we're gonna burn you at the stake?" Well, gentlemen. When the shit hits the fan, some guys run and some guys stay. Here's Charlie--facing the fire, and there's George--hiding in big Daddy's pocket. And what are you doin'? You're gonna reward George, and destroy Charlie.
Trask: Are you finished, Mr. Slade?
Slade: No, I'm just gettin' warmed up. Now I don't know who went to this place--William Howard Taft, William Jennings Bryan, William Tell--whoever. Their spirit is dead; if they ever had one, it's gone. You're building a rat ship here. A vessel for sea going snitches. And if you think you're preparing these minnows, for manhood you better think again. Because I say you are killing the very spirit this institution proclaims it instills. What a sham! What kind of show you guys puttin' on here today? I mean, the only class in this act is sittin' next to me. And I say, this boy's soul is intact. It's non-negotiable. You know how I know? Because someone here--I'm not gonna say who--offered to buy it. Only Charlie here wasn't selling.
Trask: Sir, you are out of order!
Slade: Out of order, I'll show you out of order! You don't know what out of order is, Mr.Trask! I'd show you but I'm too old, I'm too tired, and I'm too fuckin' blind. If I were the man I was five years ago I'd take a flame-thrower to this place!! Out of order, who the hell do you think you're talking to? I've been around, you know? There was a time I could see. And I have seen, boys like these, younger than these, their arms torn out, their legs ripped off. But there is nothin' like the sight of an amputated spirit, there is no prosthetic for that. You think you're merely sending this splendid foot-soldier back home to Oregon with his tail between his legs, but I say that you are executing his soul! And why? Because he's not a Baird man. Baird men, you hurt this boy, you're going to be Baird Bums, the lot of ya. And Harry, Jimmy, Trent, wherever you are out there, fuck you too.
Trask: Stand down Mr. Slade!
Slade: I'm not finished! Now as I came in here, I heard those words...cradle of leadership. Well, when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And it has fallen here, it has fallen! Makers of men, creators of leaders, be careful what kind of leaders you're producing here. I don't know if Charlie's silence here today is right or wrong; I'm no judge or jury. But I can tell you this: he won't sell anybody out to buy his future! And that my friends is called integrity, that's called courage. Now that's the stuff leaders should be made of. (pause) Now I have come to the crossroads in my life. I always knew what the right path was. Without exception, I knew. But I never took it, you know why? It was too damn hard. Now here's Charlie; he's come to the crossroads. He has chosen a path, it's the right path. It's a path made of principle, that leads to character. Let him continue on his journey. You hold this boy's future in your hands, committee! It's a valuable future. Believe me! Don't destroy...protect it...embrace it. It's gonna make you proud some day...I promise you.

(Nota pessoal: Este discurso obrigou-me a comprar o filme, que por sinal é dos melhores que já vi. Aconse-lho vivamente a fazerem-no.)

História por acabar: Faith

In outstanding flash, a gigantic spaceship appears in the enormous dark space. It seems not to be real, the beauty of the vacuum, the beauty of the stars…

Space, the last frontier, an enormous empire to be discovered. The human being always wanted to find a reason for it existing, some say that god as putted us here, others say that we have evaluated over many millions of years. The truth? It has not yet been revealed…

With impressive speed, the space ship leaves the known world of men and lands on a strange and lost planet. It is the fairest planet that man has ever seen, what it keeps, it’s many questions. But hoping to find the answer to that immortal question, man once more explores space. By a smooth landing, they finally arrive at their destiny.
With a slow move the back door opens, letting ten men get out. They all look at each other, and jump to the desert field of that desolated place. With strange equipments, they start to see the planets atmosphere and the signs of live.
-It is pure, we can breath here. And there are human cells 124 meters from here!
Taking the golden helmet off, the woman looks at the other companions who following her moves, take it out too.

Some hours later terrain transport movements shake the land surface, and finally arriving they see a strange rock. It has an ancient form and seems like a human construction.
-Is it possible? – Said one of them. – Is it possible for a human presence to have existed here all this time?
-There isn’t a strong sign of life.
-Let’s do it. – And moving his hand, the man presses the button to open the stone door.
Slowly the door opens releasing a gigantic wave of dust. After it goes the spaceman take a look at that old place. Inside there are many machines, still working, at rest. There are no signs of life, but the machines and the few objects that lie there have all a human design, and more and more the spacemen question themselves what that place could be. One of them approaches a big screen and presses a button that shines. The big screen starts to work hardly and an alien very similar to the human kind appears. It seems that he is sweeting, and his eyes show a terror that no one as have ever passed throw.

-I…I am the last of my kind…everyone has…I want to say that…you who is seeing me at this moment is my creation. When I new about the last bombs…I understand that it was our end. So…I created a race, similar to ours, I collected DNA of all the species of our world, my world, and searched for a planet where my species could live again…I found a planet that was close to ours so I send a powerful shot at it killing all its species, and setting the planet just like ours. Then all the species started to grow just like on our planet. I was preparing the planet for my species arrival…I wanted to start all over again, to create a planet just like ours and to give hope to it. I changed a bit our form, and it became like yours. I gave something to it, I gave it love. So I created a world completely equal to ours but I gave you the powerful feeling that we have always felt. When you see this message…according to my calculations…you have passed through four so called world wars, two atomical wars and…more then two hundred other types of war. But you are alive, because the only thing that you have, and that can save, and has already saved you, continues to be: alive, love. If I knew that…I would…My time is coming, I only tell you one thing: Love each other, because the sacrifice, the truth force, the immortality only lives in one place, and it is love.
The big screen shuts down, and all the people keep looking to it.

The love is a feeling that we all have, and that should be shared with each other, good deeds are love, good feelings are love, happiness is love, life is made to love, and to show it for those that we love.
03/04/05

Confuso e desamparado, que ninguém me salve

Nunca tive muita fé nas outras pessoas. Ou pelo menos era assim que eu pensava. E no entanto, o tempo passou, os anos voaram, e hoje sou o reflexo de um decadente. Confio demasiado nas pessoas. Tenho fé nelas. Gosto de as ajudar, e ser ajudado por elas. E contudo, nem sempre foi assim. Terei perdido qualidades? Ou adquirido novas? Não sei.
Pedir ajuda nunca foi o meu forte. Muitas vezes, quando pedimos ajuda, quem nos ouve tem a mania de nos julgar. Sem mesmo conhecer a situação ou assunto que falamos, este despreza-nos, e antes de nos ajudar, dá-nos uma lição de moral. Diz que não éramos assim e que fomos estúpidos. E só depois nos ajuda.
Começo a ficar farto dessa gente. Que se julgam uns aos outros, já chega. Quem são vocês para poderem dizer julgar os outros?
“Quem julga é Deus.”
È isso mesmo, deixem esse Deus aí no céu a julgar-nos em silêncio. Agora, se a coisa que odeio, é esses falsos amigos. Essa gente que após termos a dificuldade de lhes pedir ajuda, de desabafarmos, de termos confiado nessa única e certa pessoa, esta nos reprove e nos goze.
“Foste estúpido, porque fizeste isso?”
“Não preciso que me digas que fui estúpido, isso já eu sei.”
“Pois… Não sei o que te dizer. Mas foste estúpido.”
Para todos os palhaços que respondem assim, gostava de vos dizer algo, se não tem “pedalada” para ajudarem alguém, ou serem de confiança, então, por favor, não sejam meus amigos. Ignorem-me e não me venham falar. Porque, pela minha parte, o mínimo que exijo é alguém que saiba ouvir, e que, se estiver inspirado, que fale também.
Porque para alguém me reprovar e gozar, já tenho todas as pessoas que o fazem nas minhas costas. A lembrarem noites passadas ou atitudes marcadas. Não preciso das vossas manias e hábitos idiotas. Não preciso das vossas frases feitas e sorrisos cínicos.
“Vá lá meu, já sabes, estou aqui.”
O caraças, se eu precisasse de pessoas que “estão aqui” então ia visitar umas putas, ao menos essas dão prazer e dizem logo o que querem, uns quantos euros para mais uma dose. Cambada de palhaços, não preciso de vocês. Dizem que estão aqui? Bom para vocês, digam antes o que querem de mim. Digam. Querem saber de segredos para contar uns aos outros? Querem gozar-me e trair-me nas minhas costas? Querem a minha pele?
Continuo desamparado, não procuro alguém, mas algo que me alegre. Até lá.

Poetry that does not rhyme: Alone in the middle of nowhere

Got thrown away once again.
I wouldn’t mind to know why.
Why does the world refuse me?
Why don’t they accept me?
They say I’m hopeless.
They say I’ll never be someone.
They say I’m nothing.
And so I run.
I walk away.
Searching
Begging.
Hoping.
Asking.
If I can live.
Live like them.
Happy.
Alone or with someone.
Smiling.
Hated or loved.
Yet, I cannot have that privilege.
The air I breathe is disappearing.
The people I know keep on dieing.
And again and again, they leave me.
I am left alone once more, and I scream.
Crying and looking out for a god that would help me.
A merciful and generous god that would clean my wounds and heal my soul.
Where is he?
I do not know.
Until I find him, I keep on living.
I keep on breathing.
I keep on hoping.
For you.
For you my sweetest dream.
For you, world that will never exist.

Diário de um pedófilo

“Gosto de te ver sorrir. Pareces tão feliz. Deve ser de me veres. A maneira como saltas e pulas alegre. Esse teu sorriso tão belo.
Olhas para tudo como se fosse a primeira vez. As tuas mãos, sim. És tão pequena tão perfeita, como és bela. Ainda não sabes o que é ser crescido. Com os problemas que temos.
Com as dificuldades que lidamos. Não, não sabes. Ficas tão feliz com presentes. Sim, vou te comprar todos os presentes que poder. Tudo o que conseguir.
Porque te quero ver feliz, feliz sim. E se choras. Como te quero abraçar. Sim tocar-te nos cabelos. Explorar cada centímetro do teu pequeno corpo.
Tirar-te a inocência e forçar-te a amar-me. Sim, ama-me. És uma doçura de rapariga. Tão tenra…terna. Tão boa…bonita. Tão… Ah, se eu pudesse fazer de ti o meu pequeno prémio.
A minha princesa. Dava-te tudo, tudo o que podes imaginar, só para ti menina. Gostaria de te ver chorar se fosse possível. Implorar por mais se faz favor. Sim, como és bela, minha boneca inocente e única.”

(Nota pessoal: Esta diário enjoou-me.)

Música para ouvir: The Cranberries - Zombie

Another head hangs lowly,
Child is slowly taken.
And the violence caused such silence,
Who are we mistaken?

But you see, it's not me, it's not my family.
In your head, in your head they are fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are crying...

In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, dou, dou, dou, dou, dou...

Another mother's breakin',
Heart is taking over.
When the vi'lence causes silence,
We must be mistaken.

It's the same old theme since nineteen-sixteen.
In your head, in your head they're still fighting,
With their tanks and their bombs,
And their bombs and their guns.
In your head, in your head, they are dying...

In your head, in your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie,
Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?
Hey, hey, hey, hey, oh, oh, oh,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, hey, oh, ya, ya-a...

(Nota pessoal: Quem me deu esta música, mudou-me. Ou pelo menos abriu-me os olhos. Com ela vinham outras da mesma "onda", de revolta e uma mistura de sentimentos que me tocaram. Aqui deixo a que mais me afectou na altura. Uma daquelas músicas que quando está quase a acabar já a estamos a pôr no principio mais uma vez, para a ouvir e maravilhar-nos mais uma vez, como se fosse a primeira vez.)

Continuo saturado disto tudo

Já passou um mês de blog, e contudo a “nova alma” ainda não surgiu. Talvez seja meu problema, por ter tanta pressa de a ver e contudo nada fazer para apressar a sua chegada. E contudo apenas faço o que me disseram que deveria fazer:
“Espera, que quando te aperceberes, já estás feliz e ao lado de quem te ame.”
Na altura suou fatela, e ainda agora me parece triste. Portanto devemos nós sentarmo-nos num banco de um jardim e esperar por alguma coisa? E o que fazemos enquanto esperamos? Lemos aí uns jornais diários e gratuitos? Chuchamos no dedo feitos palhaços solitários? Fiquei farto. Nem me fartei da ideia de esperar, mas dá ideia que algo que vai aparecer do nada pode, e irá, abalar o meu mundo. Não. Não me apetece esperar ou acreditar que a espera me irá recompensar. Portanto, sou todo ouvidos. O que me aconselham vocês aí em cima? Se calhar estou a perder o meu tempo com gente muda…
Serei eu um incompreendido? Não. Vá lá. Já chega desta treta. Não, não és um incompreendido, nem um tipo estranho. A tua vida está o que está, e a culpa é tua. Porra é só tua! Não culpes mais ninguém seu palhaço! Só fizeste porcaria. Se estás sozinho ou se a vida não te corre bem, então é porque mereces!
Agora que já esclarecemos estas premissas, segue-se a conclusão, Estás sozinho. E poderás deixar de estar, assim que quiseres. Basta-te abrires-te. Saberes falar. Esqueceres o teu orgulho de porcaria e começares a atinar com este mundo. É lixado, é mesmo. Mas a pergunta é, quem te disse que não era? Mexe-te daí idiota e vai dar uma volta. Sim porque tu estás parado sem fazer nada, chateado com a tua vida. Armado em coitado. Tens a mania que és inocente? Pobre coitado. Já te disse e repito, Faz-te a vida!
Continuas aí?

Discurso memorável: Martin Luther King, Jr. - "I Have a Dream"

Delivered 28 August 1963, at the Lincoln Memorial, Washington D.C.
I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.
Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.
But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languished in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. And so we've come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.
In a sense we've come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the "unalienable Rights" of "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note, insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds."
But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. And so, we've come to cash this check, a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice.
We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of Now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.
It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. And those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. And there will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.
But there is something that I must say to my people, who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice: In the process of gaining our rightful place, we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred. We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again, we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.
The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to a distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny. And they have come to realize that their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.
We cannot walk alone.
And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead.
We cannot turn back.
There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as our children are stripped of their self-hood and robbed of their dignity by a sign stating: "For Whites Only." We cannot be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until "justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream."
I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. And some of you have come from areas where your quest -- quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive. Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed.
Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.
I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of "interposition" and "nullification" -- one day right there in Alabama little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.
I have a dream today!
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."
This is our hope, and this is the faith that I go back to the South with.
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:
My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!
And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire.
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.
Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of
Pennsylvania.
Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.
Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.
But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.
Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.
Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.
From every mountainside, let freedom ring.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

(Nota pessoal: Martin Luther King morreu á 4 de abril de 1968, assasinado. Dá que pensar, será que mudou muito?)

História por acabar: O Amnésico e a sua Consciência II

Onde raio estou? Espera, ainda não abri os olhos. Já esta. Que sitio é este? Parece um cubo… O que é um cubo?
È um sólido limitado por seis faces quadradas e iguais, meu caro.
Ah, certo. Caro? Que é isso? É quem sou?
Não, é uma expressão que adaptei agora mesmo para te poder chamar. Faço o pois não sei o teu nome. E antes que perguntes, nome é palavra que designa pessoa, coisa ou animal.
E qual delas sou eu?
Uma pessoa, se não me engano.
As consciências enganam-se? O que é uma consciência?
Eu sou a moral em ti. Eu distingo o bem do mal, o certo do errado.
Errado para quem?
Tudo o que digo serve para preservar a tua vida. Estou assim sempre certo.
Estou a ver...Vou me esforçar por abrir os olhos. Uma luz passa por mim. Demoro a abrir os olhos. Abri. Estou num cubo. Sinto algo que me faz doer o corpo. Será esta dor normal?
Não sinto a dor, eu simplesmente faço tudo para impedir que a tenhas. Mas esta dor não e normal. Caíste.
Como sabes?
Estas a sangrar. Caíste. Ou foste espancado.
Que interessa...Oiço vozes. Alguém vem ai.
Dorme.
Porquê?
Porque podes compreender quem és pela voz de outros.
Quê?
Dorme...

Dia dos encalhados

Realmente saturo do maior coração da Europa e do comercialismo em massa que a data obriga. Para mim que não tenciono comprar ou dedicar nada a ninguém, que devo fazer? Parar e ficar a olhar os outros? Duvido muito. Por cá fico com os meus hábitos e procuras de um nada. Até lá a quem me lê.

Poetry that does not rhyme: Dreaming around you

Got me trying to dance.
Got me trying to not care.
And truly I don’t know how you do it.
You make me forget everything and I just appreciate it.
At your side, I don’t miss the black clouds.
I just like to be and let go.
Because we just talk and smile.
You just give me hope to breath.
To smile.
To live.
Yet I don’t see you.
You’re just a thought, a dream, and a hope.
Because to tell you the truth, I’ve never seen you.
You’re the unknown.
You’re the music I hear.
You’re the pretty things in life.
Do you even exist?
Or are you nothing but a dream?
To all the lovers in the world, they all say you exist.
To all the broken-hearted in the world, they say they miss you.
To all the lonely people, they still believe in you.
Who am I, on this complicated mess?
No one, I guess.

Diário de um Amnésico

Quem? Diário de quem?

Música para ouvir: Pearl Jam - Black

Hey... oooh...
Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did.
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn

Ooh, and all I taught her was everything
Ooh, I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything.
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

I take a walk outside
I'm surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning
How quick the sun can drop away

And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything?
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything...

All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I'll be... yeah...
Uh huh... uh huh... ooh...

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,
I know you'll be a sun in somebody else's sky, but why
Why, why can't it be, why can't it be mine

Aah... uuh..

Too doo doo too, too doo doo [many times until fade]

(Nota pessoal: "Conheci" os Pearl Jam, demasiado tarde. E mesmo agora não os conheço. Apenas uma música ou duas que não posso deixar de ouvir, e não passa disso. Deixo aqui o melhor exemplar dessa influência tardia.)