Scarred, your back was turned curled like an embryo. Take another face, you will be kissed again. I was cold as i mouthed the words and crawled across the mirror. I wait, await the next breath, your name like ice into my heart. A shallow grave, a monument to the ruined age. Everything as cold as life, can no-one save you?. Everything as cold as silence and you will never say a word.*

As Freud said, "you can choose between neurotic misery and common unhappiness", as if this choice was the greatest gift of human intelligence. As for me, I will go on falling in love like an Eros, like Dionysus. I just don't care if Bacchae or maenads rip my body apart, you can feed with my body your lust of blood and men, because my soul will reborn and reborn again, falling and falling in love again. Love killed my soul and scattered my mind several times and they always survived. I am not afraid of love, I accept death, I accept Life. The one who wants to be immortal, to be un-dead, can choose to run away, and control. We will all meet in the place where bones and flesh do not enter. That is the only thing we can be sure of.

If love is a disease, I then want to be diseased, I want my body to rotten in pathology, and I want to be washed away by an illness so severe that I can never be useful for anything else. If love is a disease, what is Life? A mortal disease sexually transmitted: that's what life is. We are all going to dye. In fact, in the immemorial ages of time it is as if we were always dead.
Yes, you can choose to live between the "common unhappiness and the emotional misery of the neurotic". And you know what you can do with your theories and your mind control, where you can stick them up…stick them in your living grave, like a cross. **

...And I made a promise to myself, of never forgetting those horrid lonely days, so that I never again loose from sight the precious value you, and the ones like you, have for me, and the infernal pains of not having you, You, your voice, your body, your whisper, your smell, by my side, every night. **







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textos:
* The Cure, "Cold".
** José Elias Nunes, in "Diários de Bordo da Perdição"