A Lover´s Quarrel in a Private Drunkyard

A woman goes to her lover’s room and finds him barfing over his pillow. Soon a long monolog starts. She says the usual, like a mother´s worried speech across his teen´s asylum of stubborn dementia, and finishes with a question out of Hollywood’s audience of people devoid of crazy skills:
– Jesus, do you really despise yourself so much?
The guy shouts an ample laugh, his face a madman´s in the alley of accepted joyful despair, and says:
– Don’t you know it keeps me alive? Don’t you know I have to witness miracles every time? I thought you knew me better… I mean, you know, I’m not a mere wino. I don’t drink to forget myself and those around. I get astonished, instead. I’m a saint. I need beatitude.
Words are difficult, so the woman starts crying. She doesn’t understand. Her weak mind is set to common perspectives.
– Now, get lost! – he shouts.
The woman disappears. Her sobbing vanishes in the distance. She will never come back. Daily he sits in a high chair contemplating the surroundings, the gray buildings, the flowers, children playing in the grass lawn, beings of the vast land… He’s a spectator of beautiful things.
But he´s not a saint, only is mind is intoxicated and sees greatness. True reality is simple and plain and he doesn’t stand it. Sure he’s a wino… He has to miss it.

Estou feito. A maldita imaginação não me permite ambições típicas.

Não suporto seres pretensiosos,
que procuram o propósito para a existência
em vez do heroísmo dos segundos vividos.

Mas que mania as pessoas têm
de exagerarem nas contas
de passarem a vida a cacarejar insultos umas às outras
como se no mundo não houvesse mais para ver,
parvas
impossíveis criaturas de olhos brancos
contemplando a imagem fictícia do que são
imaginando obscenidades várias para ser menor a dor de viver
sonhos de si-mesmas,
medonhas criaturas fracas
craituras hediondas de peso na consciência
de não o serem autenticamente
incapazes seque de absoluta fealdade
derrapando nas verdades que vomitam.

Não serei igual.

Hei-de trancar o sol no quarto onde nos trancaram
para que seja nosso
e hei-de erguer uma fortaleza
para impedir a humanidade de o roubar de nós outra vez.

Fotografia de Elizabeth Weinberg

http://www.elizabethweinberg.com