Horizonte Vazio

- Um dia ainda vou amar alguém. Seja lá o que isso for. - Nunca amaste ninguém? - Não, só desejei Com profunda obsessão. Se possuir aquilo que amo, logo descubro que na verdade era por mim mesma que estava apaixonada...

You are so soft, but your softness does not touch me. You're so shy, but your shyness casts no fire in my heart. You are full of wounds and scars, but these do not call my name, and these I do not feel as if they were mine. Your loneliness does not trespass my soul, nor does it make me yearn to touch your hands, to embrace you, to give myself to you. And in you I do not see any ocean of unfathomable depth... No word of mine has ever been inspired by you. None of my poems. None of my verses. None of my drafts. It's not your fault. I never loved you...

The entire night through, how I longed / To have him so lovingly meek under my breasts, / To make him perhaps cut my throat open. / My blood, so beautifully smeared across his face. / Oh… ever-so poisonous elixir of eternal youthfulness. / To a darker shade of red, my whole world painted. / Two roses, enough for a bouquet, / Between my thighs – ‘wouldst thou dare?’ / Needlework in my nipples. / Primordial waltz that cripples. / How weep the pure… / «Desire… in violent overture». / Devour me raw, all crimson flesh, white bone. / Life’s leaden me but to a dark corner of castrated dreams, vilified means. / For thee they play this sweet funeral allegro. / Yet tomorrow those chimes shalt toll for me. / Come, feast, fuck and flee. / Once I loved you.

Toque-me, leve-me de volta através das décadas, / Para cada momento, cada lágrima, cada nódoa impressa, / Para aquelas noites de vinte horas, / Os porquês e os agoras / Nada têm connosco. / E os seus pés na neve de janeiro, / E as suas mãos no sal do mar d’agosto, / Pelos quais ansiei um quarto de século inteiro, / Pertencerão, por um instante derradeiro, / Ao solo maleável, domável, d‘um afeto verdadeiro. / Toque-me! Aqui sim, noutro dia não, / Não haverá tempo, mas então haverá perdão, / Babilónia está liberta, a minha alma desperta, / Sob luz de novo clarão. / E os meus pés já não estão no chão. / Há muito perdi a razão, / Mas aqui reencontro o meu pequeno coração. / E se estender, à esquerda, a minha mão, / Cinco dedos tocá-lo-ão, / Como se um simples gesto pudesse gritar... Gratidão. / Gratidão na solidão, / Na solidão que vislumbra um irmão. / E leito onde se deitar, / Enfim repousar, / De meia vida passada como um borrão.

Writing so much about myself makes me self-centered... in a bizarre way. As if I were someone outside myself, a character in a book. But I also spend my whole days reading, writing, listening to music, dancing and brooding over the past. I'm lonely like the devil. Did I mention that she must be lonely like the devil? She'll never read me, never see me again. But I will continue to write to her, about her. I am aware of the fact that I'm perfectly intoxicated, but I would easily give up any of my four senses, any organ in my body to be close to her again. Just to touch her with my fingertips, to ask her everything about everything; just to tell her more about all those things of mine that no one understands anyway. Nobody but her, the nymph. She sees, she captures everything. She knows everything. She knows I'm in love with her shadow. And her horizon must be as empty as mine...

Cried my heart out yesterday. Cried out for all my frustration. For all of my shallowness. For all of my dishonesty. For all of my shame and guilt. And for all of my deserved loneliness. I run the purity and kindness of people who don’t know me through the dirt of my perversion. I decided to make a comedy out of my life, yet I’m the only joke to be laughed about. I feel evil and I feel ashamed. I fooled him, and I’ll never be like him. I cried for them both. Shame and guilt. Shame and guilt. I’m meant to lose everything I yearn for, I’m meant to be passive. It was fine though. I’m also meant to cry twice every single year, a sacred rule I always end up following. I’m perversely Electra-complexed. It must be it. At least I can turn the dirt into something appreciable.

My dear, life is like a beach, full of shells. Most of them look exactly the same, although inside some may keep a treasure. Then some others are absolutely hollow and shallow, whatever, even these shells have their respectable place in the beach. Then there are the unique, exotic-looking shells, unlike any others; these can keep treasures or not, just like any other shell. And what to do with this minority? To leave the exotic shells quiet in their place, discreetly hidden amongst the others is the best we can do. But I don't know how to do that. When I see an exotic shell - that is, more exotic than myself ... - my only desire is to take possession of it. Grab it, dissect it, undo it as if I could possibly take all of that beauty for myself. Beauty, radiance, light, serenity. Owning, grabbing and consuming, these are my prevailing instincts. I am cruel and worthless. And viciously jealows. There was a huge weight on each lobe of each of my ears these past few weeks. The weigh...

The wetness of the tomb won’t let you sleep, / Feel my hand on your chest / Let us erase the distance / As if it was a part of the story we could simply forget / How I longed to feel your long hair on my face again / Closer in my arms I could have kept you back then...

«I miss you like I’m losing my own life/ /I’m drifting to somewhere I can’t find/ /Resistance and the power to let go/ /Of something I can’t control.../ /Forgive me./ /I try to reach you,/ /I am alive but I can’t breathe./ /Oh, so empty, our horizon/ /Of all the dreams that can’t come true.../ /In my thriving glowing fantasies/ /I hide the taste of sin/ /I can’t forget the sweetness of your skin/ /Forgive me for being.../ /.../ /I need to reach you/ /I need to feel you/ /Will you let me in.../ /Into your empty horizon?» Espenæs, Liv

Burnt up, eaten alive... By this sense... this cruel desire. I’d rather rip my heart out... I’d rather go mad, My only wishes are for all the things I’m not meant to have. I’m well aware, You won’t see my face again. You’ll never know just how deeply grateful I am. In my blossomed gardens of fantasy, All those masked sins of sensual cruelty. I hear you, I feel you. I taste the sweetness of your innocent whisper... And no dagger could have stabbed me deeper, Than the thought of watching you go away. Sharp nails on the door... ‘Stay, stay, stay!’. Untamed, dominant, My guiltless smile, oh, so radiant. Emptied horizons of an unattainable bidding, Of what’s left of a bestial, inhuman, sanguinary craving. My thriving illusions of deep belonging...