Post.

"There ir no overaching totality, rationality or fixed center to human life, no metalanguage which can capture its endless variety, just a plurality of cultures and narratives which cannot be hierarchically ordered or 'privileged', and which must consequently respect the inviolable 'otherness' of ways of doing things which are not their own.

Knowledge is relative to cultural contexts, so that to claim to know the world 'as it is' is simply a chimera - not only because our understanding is always a matter of partial, partisan interpretation, but because the world itself is no way in particular.

Truth is the product of interpretation, facts are constructs of discourse, objectivity is just whatever questionable interpretation of things has currently seized power, and the human subject is as much a fiction as the reality he or she contemplates, a diffuse, self-divided entity without any fixed nature or essence."

He might have been standing at the edge of infinity.

"He could see two ways ahead of him, and this appalled him, because hitherto he had never seen more than one straight line.

To owe his life to a man wanted by the law and to pay the debt in equal terms; to have accepted the words, 'You may go', and now to say, 'Go free', this was to sacrifice duty to personal motive. And now what was he to do?

Only one proper course lay open to him - to hurry back to the Rue de l'Homme-Arme and seize Valjean. Something prevented him. What was it? All the principles on which his estimate of man had been based were overthrown. Behind Valjean loomed the figure of Monsieur Madeleine, and they merged into one, into a figure of deserving veneration. Something dreadful was forcing its way into Javert's consciousness - admiration for a convicted felon. He did not for a moment deny that the law was the law. What more simple than to enforce it? But when he sought to raise his hand to lay it on Valjean's shoulder an inner voice restrained him: 'You will deliver up your deliver? Then go and find Pontius Pilates' bowl and wash your hands!' He felt himself diminished beside Jean Valjean.

But his greatest anguish was the loss of certainty. He was forced to admit that infallibility in not always infallible, that there may be error in dogma, that judges are men and even the lay may do wrong. All was chaos; and he, Javert, was in utter disarray. There were only two ways out. To go determinedly to Jean Valjean and return him to prison; or else...

The place where Javert stood was where the river flows in a dangerous rapid. He looked down. There was a sound of running water, but the river itself was not to be seen. What lay below him was a void, so that he might have been standing at the edge of infinity. He stayed motionless for some minutes, staring into nothingness, Abruptly he took of his hat and laid it on the parapet. A moment later a tall, dark figure, which a passer-by might have taken for a ghost, stood upright on the parapet. It leaned forward and dropped into the darkness.

There was a splash, and that was all."

Ora obscurecido, ora translúcido.

O problema da manhã é que ela torna tudo evidente, lúcido, transparente em excesso. Durante o dia encontramos tudo o que a há. Durante o sono perdemos as proteções que construímos ao redor do ego. O inconsciente, por meio dos sonhos, se comunica com aquele e deixa-o atento ao que, de fato, é. Acordamos e nos deparamos com a crudeza do renascimento, que nesse ponto torna tudo estrangeiro, uma vez que a psique, ao longo do ser, é saturada (quando é) de consciência do culminar, e não apenas isso, do almejar a tarde.

Somos o que sempre fomos e o que nos enganamos ser. Farsas absolutamente convencidas do "muito mais do que". Não fosse a fuga, o fim. Ainda assim: engana. Sofrimento banal.

14/07 - Good thing we die. Life suffering would not be bearable if not by the existence of death. Nevertheless, as we do what we do because of our endlessness and meaninglessness it would not be possible to conceive what life without death would/could be. It might be that everything we have conceived up to now is nothing but our misunderstanding of what we could have been if not for death that everything we put into this world is error and ignorance not by themselves but by our own error. Our errors that come out of a flawed logic system that is but a reflection of every previous aspect - as for what I have commented so far - of what we are. Good thing we live, therefore it is possible to wonder, and to dream overnight knowing that we are about to find out the absolute form of everything, the form which has already been found out by those who died. Language lacks expression. What a useless strive to wonder. What a waste to be. Let it be, though. For no reason.

O mundo é um moinho

Ainda é cedo, amor
Mal começaste a conhecer a vida
Já anuncias a hora de partida
Sem saber mesmo o rumo que irás tomar

Preste atenção, querida
Embora eu saiba que estás resolvida
Em cada esquina cai um pouco a tua vida
Em pouco tempo não serás mais o que és

Ouça-me bem, amor
Preste atenção, o mundo é um moinho
Vai triturar teus sonhos, tão mesquinho
Vai reduzir as ilusões a pó

Preste atenção, querida
De cada amor tu herdarás só o cinismo
Quando notares estás à beira do abismo
Abismo que cavaste com os teus pés.

Sonhos - retorno à escrita

Olá, blog lindo e abandonada por cerca de dois anos inteirinhos. Voltarei a escrever aqui pois tenho sentido uma certa necessidade de registrar certos acontecimentos da minha vida, dos meus vinte e seis anos, visando obter auxílio para atingir certas mudanças. Sempre penso em escrever sobre as composições musicais que faço ou sobre como foi a meditação que fiz ou, ainda, e em especial, o que sonhei.

Ultimamente tenho sonhado muito. Não sei bem a razão, nunca soube, ninguém no fim das contas sabe na verdade. Há diversos palpites, sempre há, o ser humano adora palpitar e já abordei esse assunto aqui. Voltei a sonhar com uma frequência grande nessas semanas de férias entre 2014 e 2015. Pode ser que isso tenha relação com sensações novas que venho experimentando ou com minha frequência de leituras, que se intensificou significativamente nesse período de ócio maravilhoso. Estou lendo o livro Os Irmãos Karamázov de F. Dostoiévski. Quando escolho um livro para ler busco algo com que eu não tenha tido nenhum contato prévio. Minha formação acadêmica impossibilita isso, de certa forma, já que, mesmo que algumas dar obras propostas para estudo não tenham sido lidas eu acabava sendo submetido á análises que destrinchavam a narrativa em toda sua singularidade (quando me interessava). O presente livro é algo do qual nunca ouvi/li nada. Eu só tinha conhecimento do título e da autoria. A ignorância quanto ao conteúdo narrativo é fantástica, já que eu não fazia a mínima ideia do que me esperava. Minha única expectativa era de que seria algo genial e não fui frustrado nisso. Encontro-me na página 363 da obra, que conta, em seus dois volumes, com 987 laudas. 

Enfim. Ontem, antes de dormir, eu me aprofundei por um bom tempo na obra, que discutia a relação do cristianismo com o fazer histórico do mesmo. Isso foi feito em um monólogo de uma das personagens em que fui submetido (escrevi "o leitor" e apaguei, sem academicismo aqui, falo da minha experiência com a obra) a um turbilhão de argumentos que ora colocavam a imagem de Cristo em cheque, ora desconstruíam a imagem do papado medieval e da inquisição. Li sobre até onde é possível ir com a maldade humana (e é longe), sobre como crianças, em sua inocência absoluta, já sofreram com abusos causados por sujeitos transtornados e sádicos. Enfim, é uma obra que eu preciso terminar de ler, muito ainda está incompreendido, a narrativa é polissêmica e imprevisível. 

Após dezenas de páginas sublimes e os habituais afazeres pré-sono e vou para a cama.

Eis o sonho. Eu, mais dois amigos e minha namorada (<3 a.="" a="" acidentada="" adentr="" adentro.="" adiante="" agora="" ainda="" ajuda="" al="" alegremente="" altura="" am="" ambiente="" amigos.="" amos="" amplo="" anda="" andar="" antes="" ao="" ap="" aparentemente="" apenas="" apertadas="" apesar="" apresentar="" aproximadamente="" aproximarmos="" areia="" as="" assemelhava="" assuntos="" at="" baixa="" calmo="" caminho="" carro.="" carro="" cen="" cinco="" cio.="" com="" come="" como="" comunica="" conforme="" constante="" constantemente="" continuar.="" conversam="" conversamos="" correndo="" culminante="" curiosidade="" da="" das="" de="" desgovernada="" dificuldades="" dificultam="" dirigido="" disso="" diversos="" do="" dunas="" e="" eis="" elas="" em="" encontrar.="" enferrujadas="" ent="" entre="" era="" esclarecer="" escorrega="" escorregava="" escurece="" escuro="" esgoto="" est="" estabelecer="" estamos="" estar="" estreitar="" estreito="" eu="" existiam="" explor="" f="" ferro="" ficar="" foi="" forma="" fosse="" frente="" frio="" grades="" grandes="" gua="" h="" habitual="" haveria="" i="" idas="" ignorado="" imaginava="" imediatamente="" in="" inc="" indescrit="" inten="" isso="" j="" junto="" king="" lembrados="" ler="" li="" lo="" m="" maior="" mais="" mas="" me="" melhor="" mencionado="" meus="" mido="" mim="" modo="" molhadas.="" momento="" movem="" muda="" mudan="" muita="" muito="" mundo="" n="" na="" nas="" nel="" nem="" nico="" no="" nos="" nossa="" o.="" o="" olhava="" os="" ou="" paisagem="" para="" paramos="" parar="" parecido="" parte="" passageiros="" passagem="" pavor="" pedir="" pessoas="" pido="" plano="" poderia="" pondo="" por="" praia.="" praia="" presen="" presos.="" quando="" que="" querendo="" r="" rec="" riem.="" rimos="" rio="" ruma="" rumamos="" s="" sabia="" saem="" se="" seguindo="" segundo="" senti="" sentia="" sentimento="" sentir="" sobre="" sol="" sonho="" sou="" ssemos="" stephen="" subitamente="" superficial.="" surgiam="" surgido="" t="" temeroso="" tenebroso="" tentava="" ticas="" tirando="" todos.="" todos="" tornava="" tornou="" transforma="" tudo="" um="" uma="" vaga="" vale="" vamos="" vel="" voltar="" volume="" vou="">Torre Negra,

em que há uma praia sem fim ao longo de toda a obra, mas aqui não era praia, a praia era o início, meu tormento era o túnel. Acordei quando percebi que não havia mais volta, apesar de eu não ter passado por nenhum obstáculo que não pudesse ser retornado. Eu passaria a grade e me prenderia lá dentro caso não houvesse acordado.

Esse foi meu sonho de hoje. Pretendo manter o hábito de descrever futuros sonhos, seja para que propósito for. Interpretações quem sabe eu escreva também. Penso que um sonho é algo muito pessoal, me sinto "invadindo-me" ao publicar isso, entretanto, penso que a interpretação disso é ainda mais pessoal, essa eu reservarei para mim, quem sabe um dia escreva, ainda que não ache necessário. Mas o que é necessário? Viver não é necessário, logo, por que não?

Editado: o blog zoou toda a parte em que eu descrevia o sonho. O negócio é: o bug ficou fantástico. Consigo ainda compreender o que quis escrever. Vou deixar assim, subliminaridade e tudo implícito em um código bagunçado.

Nihil: being nothing and the possibilities of that

If at any point you decide that this is just too boring: know you're not alone, not at all. Most of the time when I stare at someone's eyes - in a conversation of my own or even when I'm just randomly checking someone else's conversation - I see sadness, or something related to that. After 24 whole years I've kind of stopped wondering about the reasons behind it, I just sense a feeling of a deep confusion and I feel good to share it. Eyes are really a door to one's soul... or a window, or whatever, it's not even possible to disagree with that. If you're tough enough you might disguise it as anything else, even though this is a part of our condition as human beings. We've been searching for goals in our life for too long; we've been practicing skills and developing ways to be more than the others; we've even tried to be "less human". Our humanity depresses us, our condition is to be forever a "rotten to be", a postponed dead body which will, soon enough, be among ourselves as the dust we have once stepped on. I've got time for nothing, I need to worry about getting enough money so I don't starve, I don't even have time enough to make new paragraphs; I must keep speaking without any pauses, otherwise I would be losing a precious time, and that time can't be lost; the thing is: we don't have any idea of why it can't be lost. In past times people have created several scape mecanisms to deal with that lack of sense, but today they're all gone, some still insist on continuing blabbering about how this is something more than rotting, some have already seen how stupid we are, how disregarding is this struggling against who-knows-what that keep putting us down. It is, in fact, really easy to go so deep into our occupations that we don't have time to remembre how worthless everything is, how every single act is a huge mistake that has absolutely no importance or meaning at all. We are people, and as people, as individuals, we often forget about this "meaninglessness" we are surrounded by. Luckily enough we have created art. Art is something more than ordinary, and not even that makes it something more that useless. Art has been created to be useless, art is something that should remind us of how useless we, ourselves, are and, even like this, art is awsome. Art, and now I'm talking about music and the literary creation mainly, is so awsome that it makes us sure about our lack of meaning and at the same time shows us how amazing this is: being meaningless. Being meaningless means (whatever it is possible or not) that everything is possible. We might not even know what 'everything' is, but we may find it out (or not), and make great use of it! The feeling of "not knowing" is somewhat like the feeling of being useless: it's about the possibility of knowing and making it whatever we choose. That is so awsome that even death becomes something huge, dying and thinking about how "Nothing/Empty" it will be is absolutely huge. It's huge because, as human beings, we don't have a single clue about what that is. The closest experience we may have with Nothing/Empty is when we sleep, or when we pass out. The moment when your consciousness go away is the moment when you are into a Nothing/Empty space, but guess what, we don't have a clue how to describe it, because it's NOTHING/EMPTY. This is so unthinkable that we have to struggle a lot against our reason to barely get close to it, and when we get to a possible idea of what that is, we usualy are distracted enough to lose that feel in just a few seconds. The feeling of emptiness that Nothing/Empty causes is so calm that can't be compared to anything we feel as owners of a body in flesh and bones. Everything we know about feeling well or calm or any good feeling is related to feeling like this because of our body. Every single feeling is a biological reaction inside ourselve. I'm not saying that I've gone beyond that and felt it as it is because I'm writing as a human. The only things I've done about it were thinking a lot about it and the conclusion was: we suck. We, as human being suck as much as it is possible, we only don't suck even more because we haven't got that far into sucking. We suck because our idea of post mortem is related only to our body feelings. We have created heaven and hell and they were made exclusively to make our bodies feel good/bad. Some will say that it is just a metaphorical way to talk about a spiritual condition. Ok if it is like that, the thing is that the people that talk about that, and that have always done that, talk as if they know something more than you or me when in fact they have the same desperate look we do. That is sad, that is sad because millions of people who didn't have the possibility of thinking about that were forced into a reality full of a meaning that's filthy, a meaning full of bullshit and lies. We suck so much as human beings that we often say that being something with no meaning is awful, that this would make us desperate. But you know what? We only are desperate because we've been taught that. We've been taught that we need meaning, and the truth is: we were made to rot, we were made, born and raised to die and to suffer, no one will ever know a little about any truth and the biggest thing we can achieve is becoming free of these spiritual bonds and trying to create meaning from our own, and even like these we will always be only postponed deadbodies - and the worms in the earth can't wait to taste you, sleep with that.