Smite with all your might
Stage fright
Fight with all your sight
Tunnel light
It is usually just a word
play with rhymes and harmony
It is usually just another day
dream with a life under the sun
Bright eyes dyed white
Silver knight
Tight knots surround the site
Spot right
It is usually just a hand
made trap and set free
It usually takes some time
table with whom to drink
Lack of sleep, a little flu. He locked the computer and went to the cafeteria to drink something and take a break. While drinking, he and all the others around kept staring outside the window as if desiring to be outside.
He had decided to stop daydreaming about a life basking in the sun while listening the wind blow randomly. But every now and then, inbetween working hours, he kept the dream alive. He was the only one that could do it. He was not sure if he should, though. He never had good experiences with dreams - for a long time, he even thought that he´d lost them all.
From this side of the window, all he could see was soundless movements, the cars coming and going, people walking up and down. A little above ground level, amidst of all the buildings, he could see some trees, a shy shed of sunlight trying to trespass, as if it was somehow criminous, the solid concrete barrier. That feeling of unawareness that surrounded the environment always made him at ease, he felt somewhat safe. A not-so-slim glass kept him away from that not-so-distant world.
"Life at work is not supposed to be fun", he was told so many times while growing up that, at first, he wanted to pursue a dream carreer to avoid suffering in the fangs of Lady Work. When it not worked out, he tried to fool himself by repeating, as a mantra, the same sentence he growed up listening. Failure can trigger undesired and uncontrollable reactions. And, little by little, he was the one that was writing his own sentence of suffering. With his bare hands. Each page, each chapter, the anti-hero seemed to be dragged to a whirlpool of nothingness, an emotional black hole, a hopeless path.
Not only at working hours he maintained this slow pace, carving his fate. As the years mounted, he also became a pit of frustration in several ways. All of them, one might say. After some years of blind descending, he went from a sharp sense of reality to a self-comiseration mode, well-disguised by a distinct speech of patience and (self-)sacrifice. Living on the edge, on the brink of a new step, all he needed was a little push to get out of the mud. Although hands reached down, he felt he was way too dirty to deserve such help and kept dodging, dreaming of a perfect life in which he had never got to that point. Deep down, he just expected someone to reach down and pull him up and some One did.
It took a little time to stand up right, get cleansed, and so on, but he managed to start anew. His life was at the reach of his hands - it is not useful to live thinking of tomorrow and neglecting today. That was his crucial mistake before and he paid a high price for it all. A price he can´t afford to pay again. And although the life in the external venue, basking in the sun and listening to the wind seemed better, he knew that if he ever wanted to get there, he had to work with what he had in hands. And, for what is worthy, he knew that if he could do it, anyone could.
To remain standing up, he had to believe his legs were strong enough. To look forward, he had to live without trying to change the past. To be able to dream again, he had to start living.
He decided to stop daydreaming. The coffee break is over. Life continues.
A métrica é companheira, auxilia com mão destra as palavras canhotas. Dá-lhas uma linha a seguir, as guia para suas rimas sem tirar seus espaços e determinam seus pontos, até os finais.
A métrica é mãe, gerou em seu ventre os sonetos e versos hercúleos, heróicos, hediondos e hereges. Sempre respeitando a forma, sempre inspirando as palavras a deixarem a ordem amorfa que possuem quando sós.
A métrica é rigorosa, com mão de ferro separa e nega com veemência a presença dos termos que, inocentes, tentam se encaixar comodamente nas frases da vida. A sua balança pende e seus olhos não estão vendados.
