O som das palavras ao fundo

Por vezes torna-se tão difícil expressar-me em palavras. Logo eu, que tenho apenas este recurso!

Sinto que quero escrever, mas sei que nada tenho. Vejo que, o que habita aqui dentro - este sentimento que tantas vezes transformo em palavras - vai-se indo para longe, como para o fim de uma rua na União Soviética.

Sinto que esta morrendo. Torço para que sim, reluto para que não. Vivo sempre neste redemoinho, sem conseguir libertar-me a mim mesma. Sim, eu.

O que vou lhe escrever é tão difícil, é tão silencioso. E é tão real que não precisa ser dito. As coisas são assim: quanto mais intensas e verdadeiras, mais silenciosas. Falar para que, se posso escrever?

A Birthday Present ...

[...]

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year. After all I am alive only by accident.

[...]

Can you not see I do not mind what it is. Can you not give it to me? Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity. Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam, The glaze, the mirrory variety of it. Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate. I know why you will not give it to me, You are terrified

[...]

I will only take it and go aside quietly. You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle, No falling ribbons, no scream at the end. I do not think you credit me with this discretion. If you only knew how the veils were killing my days. To you they are only transparencies, clear air. But my god, the clouds are like cotton. Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide. Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in, Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

[...]

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole? Must you stamp each piece purple, Must you kill what you can? There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

[...]

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes. I would know you were serious. There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday. And the knife not carve, but enter Pure and clean as the cry of a baby, And the universe slide from my side.

Sylvia Plath

Yesterdays were like a holy sonnet

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, not yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poopy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

(John Donne)