Sister Steel

Water

sistersteel — Tue, 06 Sep 2016 02:27:53 GMT

.... to Angel, in honor of the eternal water that cycles through us all

You need to drink water. How many glasses did you have today? Did you buy the bottle and grade it as I told you? You have to. You need to drink water.

You need to be hydrated. If you are not hydrated there are many things in your body that will start malfunctioning, even at a 2% bodyweight deficit. And I can’t have that. I care about that 2%. I care about 0.2%. I care about the one extra molecule of water that your cell needed to keep osmotic balance after taking glucose in.

And you have to take the glucose, all your tissues need it and you need perfect glycemia to be healthy, and you need to be healthy to be happy, and I need your happiness to be happy. I need your happiness to live.

Even if I have to leave you so that you can be in peace and happy, I will leave you peacefully hydrated. And well fed. You need postprandial comfort.

Maybe you will feel a deep sting near the sternum and even if you do, it cannot be a heart attack. That is why I have to take care of you and your blood pressure needs to be controlled. So that when you feel that deep sting, the same I feel, you will know that it is just an involuntary reaction to sadness. To sudden and profound sadness and even some hopelessness. But not a heart attack.

I need to know this sting will go away with a few deep breaths.

You need to breath. You need to learn how to breath away your sadness and then you need to hydrate. And hydrate some more.

And all this water and all this air will wash away the hopelessness first, leaving some numb sadness.

You need to keep hydrating and breathing. With each gulp of water and breath the bad inflammatory reaction to all the stress we caused each other will slowly decrease. Until one day there will be just normal, post training inflammation. No torn tendons or muscles.

And as our tendons and muscles heal, they will function again and we will lift again.

There will be a scar. It will never go away.

And we will never forget. We will never forget the violent wave that washed the two of us to an unknown and scary shore where we lived and loved and barely survived, but we did. Because you kept hydrated and I made sure you did.

You need to promise me that you will not stop drinking water. Even if I am no longer here to remind you, even if I am really no longer here. That you will always remember to hydrate. To hydrate and breath. And brush away the bad thoughts and invite in the happy ones. You must promise me that if that water brings you memories of me, that you will let time perform its filtering job and keep only the good ones. You must promise me that you will let the water wash away all the pain we suffered and that you will only remember my sweaty face smiling at you. That you will only remember how I kept you hydrated with all my waves, my rivers and my lakes.

You must promise me that you will remember me as that river that is always there, but whose water is never at the same place.

And that even though I’m long gone, the river whispers memories of that time.

And that even blood is perfect if diluted in water. A perfect Ruby.

Ruby

The boy who gave me his College jersey

sistersteel — Sat, 25 Apr 2015 22:03:41 GMT

There are animals in me – you never tried to tame them.
There are beasts in me - you feed them and let them loose.
There is limitless power in me – you unleash it
There are unhealed wounds in and on me – you acknowledge them
There is fear of monsters in me – you kill them
There is fear of myself in me – you hold me
There are nightmares in my sleep – you hush them
There are dreams from a timeless place in me – you made them real
You are the man from the Canyon
The boy who gave me his College jersey

About the (im)possibility of love

sistersteel — Sat, 17 Jan 2015 18:04:32 GMT

Every love is possible. Not every relationship is possible. Not every relationship is possible in its default format: the cohabiting (married or not) couple. All verbalized love is awesome. Not all love can or should be verbalized. Love belongs to he who loves. Nobody can take it away from its legitimate owner. This is good - it can and should be experienced. Not to employ love in a relationship may cause frustration and pain. Dealing with this is part of life, requires serenity and acceptance. Life is not catastrophic because a relationship is impossible. Life is what it is, always surprising. Taking pleasure and satisfaction from the sense of awe caused by the unexpected is an option. Enjoying growth is, too. Suffering with frustration and becoming miserable because of them, also.

Every woman is a little bit of a mother

sistersteel — Tue, 06 Jan 2015 20:22:17 GMT

(this is the English translation of something published about 3 years ago)

Every woman is a little bit of a mother. Every mother is somewhat the mother of the World. Every woman is a little bit the mother of all the men in her life.

When I squeeze one of them against my belly and try to kill imaginary or real dragons that attack them, this is how I feel.

The men of my life have been everything to me: children, mirrors, brothers, fathers.

The men of my life have been generous to me. With them, I learned the fundamental things of life.

With my father, I learned about pheldspars, which is an essential knowledge for everyday life. I also learned how crystals are formed. Essential, as well. A month ago, however, I picked him up when he tripped and fell over a basket in the middle of the living room. I was glad that he didn’t bump his head again. He asked for chocolate milk.

With my older brother, Mauro, I learned that razor blades pee in the hands of little girls. I was warned that this is the nature of razor blades, so little girls should not mess with them. As soon as he turned his back, I tested his hypothesis. He was right. I also learned that syphilis is a venerable disease, the reason being that it killed the venerable, like King Henry the VIII. He taught me that worms’ breathing system was called “pathogenic osmosis” and that “hormigon” was a huge ant, with powerful claws. *

With my other brother/sister I learned more mysterious things, most of which I still don’t have a full grasp on, and leave me in awe.

With the men I had, or who had me, I learned everything: to have and to lose; to laugh and to cry; to be accepted as I am and to be rejected for what I don’t even understand. I learned about the secrets hidden in my body and in my soul. I learned the worst side of pain and also the best side of pleasure.

I think, however, that the most important thing I learned with the men of my life, especially with this very peculiar class of brother-friends, is that it is even possible to live with less horror because they will be there for me. They will be there, holding my hand in the ghost train, and they will scare the monsters from under the bed. They will say “shh… it’s over” and will calm down the terrorized and bleeding little girl that lives inside me forever. They will get rid of the bad guys and will defend me from the thugs.

It is about these men that I think today.

Every woman is a little bit of a daughter.

* This is all total bullshit, of course: the nature of older brother – little sister relationship includes the right to invent all sorts of nonsense and teach them to the little sister

Mother

sistersteel — Tue, 06 Jan 2015 15:21:21 GMT

I am Mother.
I am the mother of a baby.
I am the mother of a woman.
I am the child of my mother. I am the child of my father.
I am the mother of my mother and the mother of my father.
I am the mother of Dragons.
I am the mother of beasts.
I am the child of Steel.
I am the mother of Steel.
I am the mother of the damned.
I am the child of horrors.
I am the mother of Forbidden Thoughts.
I am the mother of Desire.
I am the mother of all men who had me.
I am the mother of their fears.
I am the mother of their sins.
I am the mother of their solace.
I am the mother of Fire.
I am the mother of Justice by fire.
I am the mother of Truth.
I am the child of Pain.
I am the mother or Pain.
I am the Mother of Change.

Pride, wrath and closure

sistersteel — Sun, 04 Jan 2015 16:32:47 GMT

In the dark and mysterious realm of some categories of love, closure after a breakup may never come. It requires resolve, determination and some science. Oh, the worst part: willingness to look inside ourselves more than inside “the other”.

There is no other expression for it: the whole process sucks. Especially the “looking at yourself in the mirror” thing. Deconstructing “the other” sucks almost as bad.

We think we looked at ourselves in the mirror when we took the blame. Not true: taking the blame is usually self-manipulation. You make yourself look bad enough so that you actually don’t have to understand anything. And then, of course, you’re allowed to depress and feel sorry for yourself. Self pity, a bit of depression, thinking about the great days you had with the person and you, bad dog, sacrificed it all. That’s easy. And misery loves company. It’s easy to share that.

“I’m feeling bad because I lost a great man for being a bad dog…”

“I’m so sorry… let’s drink this into oblivion”

See? Easy.

But not true.

Actually, taking the blame makes us look good. After all, we are so powerful. We screwed up. We made the other person so miserable that we lost him. Bad, powerful dog.

What if we look closely and suspect that we weren’t actually that powerful and that we weren’t actually treated that well?

That we were never that incredibly central and important in their lives? Well, that sucks. For me, it sucks more than anything: it pisses me off. I look at myself in the mirror and I don’t see that powerful monster anymore: I see a stupid gullible woman who got herself into that same old Mr. Wrong Guy relationship.

And then I get angry. More than angry: there’s a volcanic wrath ready to explode inside me. Because nobody makes a fool out of me! Yeah, but he did.

That makes him horrible, right? No, it doesn’t. It makes him… “normal”. And that’s the beginning of closure. When I understand I am furious, ashamed and feeling my pride deeply damaged. Then I do need to deconstruct the perpetrator – however an unwilling wrongdoer he was. He isn’t that great. He’s so… “normal”, so average, so subservient to conventions. Yes, he’s a gray person: he will never shine.

What about that incredible generous man with strong opinions I fell in love with? I have to understand he was partly my invention. Given enough pheromones, I can invent anything. I can create the greatest personality and dress it over an average man. Did I do that in this case? It doesn’t matter. For now, that has to be the working hypothesis.

We have facts: he wasn’t willing to fight for the relationship we had. He wasn’t willing to construct anything: if it fit into his life exactly as it was, good. If not, he would let it go, as he actually did.

So that’s basically the script for reaching closure: looking inside and coming to terms that you are not that great. You were made a fool of – whether it was deliberate or not. There were lies and bad things done to you, so you need to feel they were wrong doings. You need to feel resentment. In my case, it becomes a powerful state of wrath, but that’s me: I’m intense. And in my case, my pride is the most sensitive part of my anatomy. Hurt that and it will take a long time to heal, in which I will growl and bite like a wolf.

After the wound has partly healed (hurt pride might not fully heal in me), then there’s indifference. You don’t feel anything when you see his pictures or writing.

I still have hope, however, that after all that, there might be a time when I may be able to meet that person again and know him for the first time, unstained by the experience I purged though the long closure process.

My hope is based on experience: I have a good friend, who I greatly admire, who was once “the love of my life”. Our parting was ugly. Resentment from both sides. However, we did manage not only to rebuild respect, but we actually and truly like each other. He is a great man, an exceptional man, I enjoy reading his work and exchanging e-mails, and I feel absolutely no attraction for him as a man.

So yes, it can happen.

It takes time, though. A lot of time. It also takes willingness to get to this condition. Both people need to value the other enough as to think the effort is worthwhile.

Five lies and truths about Alpha females

sistersteel — Fri, 02 Jan 2015 01:01:55 GMT

1.     LIE : Alpha females are always alone. Given the fact that they are aggressive and self-sufficient, alpha females scare men away since men find themselves useless as partners with these women
TRUTH : Alpha females have a vast lineup of males applying for a chance not only to sleep with them, but to be their actual partners (husbands, for those who care for conventions). Most alphas are actually committed. Others may find amusing to spend their later years enjoying the freedom of dating whoever they want, since they have already raised their kids

2.     LIE: Alpha females are so workaholic and work-driven that they will be uninterested in sex
TRUTH: What a laughable joke. Alphas frequently have higher testosterone levels (that’s why they enjoy being so competitive!). Guess what these higher testosterone levels do to their libido?

3.     LIE: Alpha females are not fun to be around. They are always focused on their next professional achievement.
TRUTH: While interrupting an Alpha while she is working on an important project may be hazardous for any person’s health (male or female, with the exception of her offspring, which she will only yell at), as soon as she’s done and she declares “fun time”, her sense of humor will outdo most people’s: sense of humor is directly related to rational cognitive abilities. She has more than anyone else

4.     LIE: Alpha females don’t need/want their partner to show they care, since this can threaten their sense of self-sufficiency
TRUTH: Alphas are human. All humans need their partners to show they care because that is the basic assumption over which people build intimacy.

5.     LIE: Alpha females will do great mistresses since they don’t “need” a man and are self-sufficient
TRUTH: Alphas will never be second to anyone. They are winners. Trying to have an Alpha as a mistress may result in serious damage to your self-esteem, your soul, if you are lucky, and to much more than that, should you make her angry enough. If you want a mistress, don’t even smile at an Alpha

Bad Queen

sistersteel — Wed, 31 Dec 2014 14:14:04 GMT

I’m a Queen without a king, my Love, a lonely Queen
My kingdom prospers, my love, my kingdom grows
My kingdom has enemies, my love, powerful enemies
But I am a powerful queen
I have been called a warrior queen
A Viking queen
A barbarian queen, mother of beasts, leader of relentless soldiers
But I’m a queen with hidden wounds, my love
Since you left, I’m a queen with a new wound, and it won’t stop bleeding
I can’t be your mistress, my love, because I’m a queen
A queen kneels to no one but her king
A warrior queen subjugates everyone but her king
A queen can only belong to a king
A queen doesn’t cry, my love, she sheds no tears
The tears dry inside her and grow bitter crystals
They are ugly crystals, unlike the ones that protect our hidden chamber
Only a king may extract dried tear drops from a queen’s heart
The dried tear drops make her bitter, my love
They blur her vision so that she can’t see her dreams well
She struggles, my love, because she is a brave queen, a queen with a heart of iron, a queen with the heart of a lion
But the dried tear drops are harder than diamonds
Only her king can extract them, my love, only her king
And if he doesn’t return, the kingdom will cry for her, the kingdom will cry
The kingdom will cry because she will be a sad queen
A strong queen
A fierce queen
A dangerous queen
A bad queen

You, the Queen, and your choices

sistersteel — Wed, 31 Dec 2014 14:00:21 GMT

And then one day something really bad happens and the first person you think of is not him. You’re going down into a vortex of meaninglessness again and – hush! – it is a secret. After all, you’re such a strong and powerful Queen. You’re being blended into a mass of slashing shreds of a world shattered by unpredictability, by pettiness, by content-free events, objects and facts. You need to hold on to something solid. What is it?

There’s identity: you need that as normal people need the air. But it’s too hot and you can’t lift if you can’t breath. The bar is there for you, meaning-laden, but far, separated from you by the horror of heat and light.

There’s honor. That stubborn defense of an inner truth, incorruptible by foreign standards. Honor can save you and you think fast while the centrifuge of values threatens your being.

And then you call. You call someone else.

He can’t help you. He can’t hold you tight, look into your eyes with his identity and reach out for yours in a moment when your hands are tied. He doesn’t have one. The fragile simulacrum of an identity is, for him, a patchwork of random elements he picked up here and there with the hesitant critical view he came too late to find useful. He has vague ideas about safety, value, status, stability, and a much vaguer sense of freedom and free will. He is satisfied knowing the food he likes and that he looks good now that he’s older and richer. He doesn’t know who he is and he would be helpless, were he available to help you.

But he isn’t. That would require honor. To be there for his brothers and sisters in arms no matter what. To be there for his love.

But he doesn’t know what brotherhood is, much less what love is. Subserviently following the conventions of the life he coveted as a poor youth, he has no idea what they mean.

He is a good man. He tries. But he got to the Truth Game too late.

You realize you’ll never think of him when the real battles come. When you are alone and your powers fail you.

You like him. He tries his best, but his best is not enough. He’s not whole enough, not honorable enough, not strong enough.

And then you call someone else.

Weak men: they are so easy to love. So hard to deconstruct. Unless the war breaks and they hide or betray you.

Strong men. So hard to love, so much like you in your strengths and your flaws. So scary in how deep they see your insides.

But the only ones you can actually journey together with through danger and mystery. It doesn’t matter how long. Time doesn’t count where there is honor.

"Do I look all right?" - what kind of question is that?

sistersteel — Sat, 22 Nov 2014 05:18:59 GMT

I agree that there are a couple of things that women do that leave men clueless. There are many. I chose the question that no man understands: "do I look all right?"
When I was ready (and after he patiently waited for me to put on all the pieces that went together well, spent time making up and straightening my hair), I asked the question. He looked at me honestly lost and said: "what kind of question is this?"
After all, he had spent hours with me in which he told me, several times, how beautiful I was. I had (and have) no reason to doubt that. But he said that looking at a woman with her hair messed up, her make up all smudged or gone and, well... not much clothing on. Yes, guys, it is awesome to the cube to hear that - please, do it. That is exactly when we want to know we look beautiful.
"Do I look all right" refers to something else. The subtext is: "am I an adequate queen or princess for my king? Am I fit for you? Do my care with my look translate how much I admire you and how much I wish to express it in with careful production of the way I dress, make up and do my hair?"
Contrary to what others believe, this careful and mysteriously time consuming production has nothing to do with looking good for the public, for other women or other men. We actually don't care if there is anyone around. We will actually do the same thing if we are having a candlelight dinner at home, alone. We walk through the restaurant unaware of the looks from other people: all we care is how you look at us.
I know it sounds irrational to ask if you look "all right" after you've been told you are so beautiful many times. This is only because the question hides another question.
So maybe the best answer is Eric Clapton's "you look beautiful tonight". Or maybe it is "you are the best queen for me" or "my best concubine". All she wants to know is if the way she dressed up, made up and took care of every little detail actually made you feel like the king you are for her.

Too wrong

sistersteel — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 15:09:53 GMT

You're too alpha. And a horrible pretender: when you try not to be, you sound phony.
You're too intense. You can suck the light out of a black hole. Who wants to be near a vampire like you?
You're a succubus. A female demon who will suck a man's soul through sex. Your vagina is a vacuum cleaner for men's energy.
You try too hard.
You don't try hard enough.
People need a restraining order of a couple of thousand miles against you to survive.
You sound wonderful in text, but God protect me from your touch.
Your sex is irresistible. You're a black widow. God protect me from your bed.
You are dangerous. God protect me from your anger.
You are an embarrassment. God protect me from your public manifestations.

To do list

sistersteel — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 14:41:21 GMT

kiss her

fuck her like an animal

make love to her every day, for six days

look into her eyes as she orgasms and delve into the mysteries of her soul

talk to her

hug her and have her hug you back

let yourself be sucked and licked by her

have dinner with her

smell and taste her

feel her morning breath

be inside her and feel her wetness

hold her hands and squeeze her tits

tell her about yourself

love her

be there for her when she needs you

Check, check, check.
conclusion: wrong list.

The One

sistersteel — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 14:19:40 GMT

I never believed in it. It just couldn't be true. It is irrational and lacks any scientific basis. Right? Not so fast. As a result of a few decades of research into mating choices and the Major Histocompatibility Complex, we reached a certain level of consensus in the years 2000s concerning odor and sexual attraction.

Let's face it: it doesn't make sense to rationalize odor sexual preference. It is just there, or it isn't. Not everybody has had the experience of feeling an irresistible attraction to someone's smell. And when the "real thing" hits you hard in the brain, all defenses are brought down. He just smells too good. Embarrassingly good. A foot away from him and your pupils dilate, your insides start to move and you smile.

He smells too good. He tastes too good. All his body fluids taste good. You salivate as you approach him.

But we're cultural animals. If the rest of the components are not there, you won't even meet him. Maybe you'll feel strange in some public situation, but you won't suspect he's there. He doesn't make sense otherwise.

Once in a lifetime, though, all factors may conspire. He will smell perfect, his thoughts will be aligned with yours and his actions will seduce you. You will be mesmerized by the way he looks up from his glasses, the way his fingers move to pick up a glass of water and by the shadow formed by his massive back against the wall.

As he smiles at you, holding your hair, your legs holding his hips, you will think that should he stick his canines into your carotid, you'd happily offer him all your blood. He doesn't.

Instead, he just stares at you forever. You open yourself like a flower.

Instead, he brings you food. He arranges cheese and crackers on a platter for you. He puts them in your mouth. He offers you water when you don't ask for it. He feeds you. He hydrates you. He closes all the curtains to help you sleep.

He's the One.

He stares at you in silence and you stare back. You memorize all the colors of his eyes. He squints as he smiles, but you can see each fraction of his iris as if they were billboards.

He's the One.

He calls to check on you as you wait in a white robe, eating the ice-cream he got for you. He squeezes you like a pillow, in the middle of the night and then he smiles and snores in your ear. You don't mind.

He's the One.

You look at him, carelessly checking his e-mails. Eating junk snack. Playing with the remote control. Making coffee. Each little move looks mysterious, complex. You just stare.

He's the One.

You won't allow anyone ever to touch you again because they are not him and...

He's the One.

You will suddenly realize that all the other men walking on the streets, greeting you at counters or having coffee with you lack penises. They had penises before, but they just don't, anymore.

Because he's the One, and only he can have one.

All your previously disconnected ideas will make sense and will entangle with each other. You won't imagine a World without his smile, his comments will speed your production, the intensity of his gaze will hit your brain cells like laser beams. His kiss will heal your wounds. A net of meaning will generate from the palms of his hands like Spiderman. He's Peter Parker, Bruce Wayne and James Howlett. Nobody knows his true identity but you. New York and Gotham City are safe from the symbolic deconstruction of Meaninlessness.

Because he's the One.

He's still human, though. He gets sick. He throws up. He freezes with panic. Like everybody else.

Eventually, he will or might leave you.

The burden of being The One is too heavy. He will pick up his backpack and leave Zion. Or he will take the Blue Pill and return to the Matrix.

You will then fall into the tube of an inverted kaleidoscope. Instead of an endless succession of structure and form, you will be sucked into a powerful vortex of Meaninglessness. Shreds of broken crystal will spin around and slash your flesh. There is nothing to hang on to. Whatever your hands try to get a grip on will cut them deep.

Eventually you will find yourself in a desert. Chips of a broken world are everywhere around. No blueprint to reconstruct it.

He will not be there to guide you. He was the One, but you lost him. You were never The One.

Just like his appearance, his disappearance is one of those "forever" situations.

You don't know what to do with such timelessness.

You look around and think: "so this is what Hell looks like".

LEAVING (cyclic seasonal relocation)

sistersteel — Sat, 25 Oct 2014 03:04:12 GMT

- I didn't need the thousands of books on my shelves
- Most of the objects on the shelves were remnants of other lives and even other people's lives
- The objects that were inherited from a time gone do not contain the experience of those who lived it
- I don't know why most of the ornaments are or were even there

As each box is packed, given or thrown away, I peel off another layer of attachments I have never understood. Maybe that is why I never got rid of them: we fear to lose the things we do not understand.

I realize the only things I will miss are my bar and disks. All Olympic bars weigh the same, by definition. All Olympic disks also weigh the same. But they are not mine and the places I will lift will not be my powerhouse.

It's ok. I will learn to take my temple inside me.

The bottomless well of mystery and the Evil Goblin of Routine

sistersteel — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 13:25:22 GMT

So Hugo asked me if the geographical distance didn’t bother me.

I said no, it didn’t. Actually, I said I hoped to keep some distance forever – not huge, but at least some driving distance. Because what I had with this man was too precious to lose to the eroding effect of daily routine.

He asked me how so.

So I told him about my “well theory”.

When you fall in love – with a person, a project, whatever –, an incredible cognitive shift takes place. Call it magic or spiritual matching, if you want. You see the object of your love and the infinite layers of its complexity are evident to you. It happens almost suddenly. You are mesmerized, fascinated. You can’t stop looking at it. You understand you could spend a million lifetimes exploring it and you would never fully understand it: it is a bottomless well of mystery and beauty. This notion feeds your highs and enthusiasm, your deep care and the need to treasure your rare gem. It is unique, it is beyond perfect. Perfection is easy and in time you would lose interest. Complexity, on the other hand, is potentially infinite. It is irresistible. You have such a positive feeling that you could go on loving it forever that it doesn’t make any sense not to see it that way.

But then you move in together, if it is a person, or you engage in the bureaucratic tasks of making it happen, if it is a project. Let’s stick to the person.

The idea sounds terrific: the intense pleasure and transcendence of the moments you two have together will happen every day! In the middle of the night, when a scary thought or an urgent need to pee wake you up, you will reach out and your hand will find his body. He will be there, less than a foot away. You can make love to him.

And in the first weeks, this is almost what it is. You shop for groceries together to feed the two of you and it makes perfect sense, since you are already feeding on each other’s cravings and obsession. You start making choices about the environment around the perfect nest. Yes, this is the home: a nest for you to fuck your way into that bottomless well of mystery, beauty, eroticism and all the good treasures you found.

With each passing week and month, more time will go into deciding if you will get collards or spinach; if the chair you chose was the best, since there was another one that looked more comfortable, but was more expensive; and that you are not making as much money as him, so you chose the cheap one and he silently resented it (very silently). You will sit and decide about the common bills and how they will be paid. That will take time. And this time is what the Routine Evil Goblin needs to spread a black cloud obliterating the image of your love. Little by little, a heavy lid is being pushed over that infinite well of mystery and beauty.

A year later you find yourself discussing the Middle East conflict in a matter of fact way with him. His views, his way of wording his arguments, are no longer fascinating. You stopped spending time savoring the uniqueness of his mind. Because in two hours there will be dinner to fix, and then you will send a couple of urgent e-mails and after that, bed. You two need to wake up early. Your thoughts are on the e-mails you sent and on your need for some sleep. You forget the object of your love is less than a foot away and you could reach him with your hands, stroke his chest, touch him, kiss him and make love to him.

You do, eventually, because, well, you both need sex. It is good and it works better than valium for relaxing and a better sleep. It is therapeutic.

And where is that urge to use his cock as a tool to carve his way into the dark and beautiful innermost chambers of your soul? And yours, to offer yourself to him as Mother Goddess to the Sun, to be fertilized and reborn as he reaches deep inside you?

You don’t actually remember how it felt. This whole thing doesn’t even make sense anymore. Because you have a very complicated contract to read and maybe sign and he is there, anyway, less than a foot away from your cold body. He can help you decide what is best because he is much better than you are in understanding contracts. You are grateful to have him around.

He can also reach the high shelves and change the light bulb that burned yesterday.

One day, you two start bringing up the baby subject. It is time for you to have a baby. Why? Because it will “complete” you. You don’t even realize that you two never needed any completing because you were two awesome, complex and complete beings delving into each other’s secrets. Now you need this “something” to fill a new emptiness.

This is the second and most dangerous stage of the Routine Evil Goblin’s work. That is when the bottomless well of mystery and beauty has been completely closed and the lid fastened. The shallowness it produced in your lives finally resulted in a sense of emptiness. You have choices: you can go traveling abroad and share new experiences, finding richness and mystery elsewhere, but you really know it is a different kind of awesomeness. It will never be the transcendent, intimate kind of mystery you can only have when your insides are touched by another human being. The insides of your soul. But that’s ok because Barcelona is such a beautiful place and you two love art.

You also have the choice of choosing a new hobby. You can go mountain climbing – just recreationally, not seriously – or hiking. You like nature.

You can get a puppy.

You choose the baby. You will fuck more often again. You will actually fuck every day around your ovulation. It will be torture for him. He will receive your text messages on his cell phone: “come home early – I’m ovulating” and he will shiver inside. A little voice inside him will scream that this is wrong, this is not what he applied for. It will ask loud and clear: “what are you doing with your life?”. But he will ignore the little voice. After all, he loves you. He tells you that every day. Before he hangs up, he says “love you”. He could as well say “potato chips”. He doesn’t remember what love is, or used to be.

Then the baby is born. He is your baby’s father. He’s an important person. The male role model for the treasure of your life. You look at your baby and you see a bottomless well of mystery and beauty. With each fart, digestive smile or vomit, you smile in awe. Isn’t he perfect? Isn’t he more than perfect? Isn’t your baby the most complex thing you ever saw? You are in love again. You are deeply in love with that baby. You filled your emptiness.

Which, by the time he is five, will have settled in again.

And the father of your baby, that familiar stranger having breakfast with you every day, gives you a peck on the cheek and says “good-bye, honey, have a wonderful day”. You answer “sure, baby, love you”.

One day you realize your lover is gone. There is only the father of your baby, the roommate, the good friend to give you sound advice and to ask you things about health and lifestyle. The endless well of mystery and beauty is tightly closed forever to you. You will never, ever reach into his soul again and neither will he.

Again you have choices. You can fall in love with something else or someone else. You can become a workaholic in a very dangerous, stressful and demanding line of work, where routine will never erode your infinite well of mystery and beauty. You will shoot the Routine Evil Goblin in the middle of the eye. You can fall in love with someone else. It won’t work: you are not available anymore to fully surrender to this other man’s touch into your soul. There’s your good friend, the father of your son, there’s your house, your work and there is the son.

You can shoot your brains out because you remember you have lived this more than once and you had promised yourself never to fall into that trap again. And you did, and it is all your fault.

The bottomless well of mystery and beauty is part of what is also known as intimacy, unfortunately too often confused with the nauseating comfort of familiarity.

All this said, my answer is that I will never compromise our access to the bottomless well of mystery and beauty. I know the Evil Goblin of Routine well enough and I can feel his stench. He won’t steal my treasure. This kind of thing happens once or twice in a long lifetime, and mine won’t be that long.

Coisas que todo mundo já fez

sistersteel — Fri, 24 Oct 2014 13:24:20 GMT

COISAS QUE QUASE TODO MUNDO FAZ OU JÁ FEZ, MAS ESCONDIDO:
- tirar caca do nariz e discretamente grudar na cadeira escura
- assistir pornografia na internet
- comer algo que pertence a outra pessoa (em geral algo doce, bom pacas e de presente)
- escutar música brega porque provoca emoções igualmente bregas e das quais você tem vergonha
- guardar coisas inúteis, mas BEM inúteis
- guardar coisas “significativas” como a chave eletrônica do quarto do hotel daquela noite inesquecível que você jura que esqueceu
- pegar algo que sua mãe ou irmãos disseram para não pegar porque é perigoso e verificar que eles tinham razão
- fazer uma coisa que seu médico de confiança disse para não fazer porque ia piorar (e verificar que ele tinha razão)

COISAS QUE QUASE TODO MUNDO JÁ FEZ E SE ARREPENDE
- dizer “eu te amo” para alguém quando é mentira
- não dizer “eu te amo” para alguém quando é verdade
- dar um tapa ou chacoalhão no seu filho pequeno (e depois se sentir um monstro)
- não se despedir de alguém e perder a chance para sempre
- dizer coisas para machucar e conseguir
- calar-se sobre algo muito errado
- calar-se sobre um ressentimento e descobrir anos depois que os fatos eram outros
- ir para a cama com alguém só para verificar seu valor no mercado de carne
- não ir para a cama com alguém por fidelidade (e nunca mais esquecer)
- rejeitar uma proposta de trabalho sensacional para não deixar o país, o casamento, um outro trabalho supostamente mais estável ou outra coisa menos relevante
- publicar sua opinião cedo demais
- deixar de publicar sua opinião ou dados e ficar tarde demais
- acusar alguém baseado em opiniões, e não em fatos
- deixar de ir a algum lugar sensacional
- concordar ou aceitar algo horrível por ser politicamente correto (e anos depois descobrir que o politicamente correto era politicamente incorreto)

Coisas que todo mundo já fez

sistersteel — Tue, 26 Aug 2014 16:07:14 GMT

Era só sexo

sistersteel — Tue, 01 Oct 2013 03:08:04 GMT

Era só sexo o que eu queria com você.

Eu só queria você por algumas horas e, nesse tempo, ter você enterrado dentro de todos os meus orifícios, sentir todos os seus sabores e seus odores.

Eu só queria misturar minha saliva com a sua e sentir sua boca, sua língua, sua respiração. Queria te beijar a boca e todas as áreas expostas e disponíveis para serem beijadas e tocadas, olhadas, cheiradas. Mas era só sexo.

Queria sentir suas mãos onde quer que elas pousassem, alisassem e agarrassem. Que elas, suas mãos, fossem o instrumento pesado de posse sua desse território proibido, meu corpo. Que nessa terra em guerra você impusesse a sua paz, à força, destruindo demônios e expulsando hereges. Suas mãos, pesadas, me fazendo sua. Mas era só sexo.

Eu só queria poder olhar seu corpo inteiro em toda a sua potência e voluptuosidade, visão parcial, visão perturbada pela entrega. Ou o mesmo corpo saciado, relaxado, um braço ou perna aleatórios confirmando a posse sobre o território conquistado. Decorar todas as suas tatoos, cada uma das quais desenhando com tinta o que já foi marcado a fogo dentro de mim. Eu só queria olhar de novo dentro daqueles seus olhos duros e verdes, verdes como um mar profundo e turbulento. Me perder e naufragar naquele mar, mergulhar e me afogar. Mas era só sexo.

Eu só queria que o seu urro de gozo de um corpo agarrado ao território possuído eternizasse a apoteose de uma fusão de dimensões cósmicas entre o Céu e a Terra, terra libertada, terra fecundada, terra ressuscitada. Que esse momento eternizado, para sempre meu e seu, ecoasse pelo meu universo de significados pelo infinito.

Mas era só sexo o que eu queria com você.

Real dating advice

sistersteel — Thu, 11 Jul 2013 04:23:55 GMT

Today I read some complaint from a friend concerning bad dating advice given by a female friend of his. It was funny but then I couldn’t stop some dark thoughts from intruding my work, so here I am. Actually I think he’s right: all dating advice is bad except the ones that will never be given out. The ones that we hide inside that unhealed and putrid chamber inside us.

The true dating advice a man could make use of to get to me would be something like this: first of all, if you’re not truly very damaged, there’s nothing you can do that will really turn me on. I may enjoy your company, I may even have sex with you a couple of times, maybe to confirm my desirability, maybe just because I feel you deserve it after having put so much effort in trying to give me a good time. But that will be just a bit more than a one night stand, if that much.

If you are really damaged and hurt, and a part of you wants to be fixed, you might be so fascinated with me that you and I will think we have fallen in love. Madly in love. But you must not be willing to show it – otherwise you will blow it. You must actually be little aware of the amount of damage you carry in your heart, which is in direct proportion to the amount of damage you will eventually cause me.

You must not be willing to show your damaged inside nor your fascination. You must be serene and look in control, fully in control, all of the time. At some point, you must be so sure you are in control that you will declare you can fulfill my own need for order and control. You will very softly let me know that you will take care of everything, which is pure bullshit, you and I know it. But we’re both willing to believe it at this point.

That’s when we finally allow physical intimacy to take place. It has to be awkward. Otherwise all the fakeness we are working so hard at will eventually show and, again, you will blow it. Hesitation is the name of the game. You will hesitate to a point that I will either give up or jump you. But if you did your job well up to now, I can’t give up anymore. The tragedy will run its course. I will jump you. And you will totally surrender and take me. We will fuck like it’s the last day before the doomsday meteor hits Earth.

The day after doomsday sex is when we start screwing everything up. The darkness you kept so badly hidden up to now – but I chose to ignore –will emerge. You think I will fix it: after all, I signaled that all the way from day one. But I won’t. I can’t. You will be disappointed, then frustrated, then really sad and finally angry. Anger will turn to hate.

And you, the all powerful angel that was put on Earth to heal me, to protect me from myself and my demons, to control me, will deny me your supernatural powers. You’re just a fucking human.

Betrayed by your humanity, I will betray your trust in my willingness to fix you and let you bury your head in my breasts when darkness closes in on you too early or too heavy. I don’t even have enough breasts for that.

Our dating is over, leaving the two of us even more damaged than we were when we met. With luck, parts of this interaction will have been so magical that years from this disaster, we might be able to retrieve a few fond memories from it.

Se você voltasse (1)

sistersteel — Wed, 29 May 2013 04:24:53 GMT

Se você voltasse para mim por ondas magnéticas, se aparecesse em texto, som ou imagem, eu sorriria. Eu teria medo, teria insegurança, não saberia como responder ao seu sinal. Eu lidaria com o primeiro “olá” como se fosse um passarinho caído de um ninho em minhas mãos, seguraria com muito cuidado, não apertaria e não saberia como alimentar.

Eu teria mais medo ainda que o meu medo fosse interpretado como outra coisa que medo. Mesmo assim eu teria medo de declarar meu medo.

Provavelmente, então eu me calaria.

Gostaria que houvesse imagem e talvez som também, e que você visse que meu silêncio era acompanhado por um quase sorriso. Não muito, pois eu também não sei como seria interpretado um sorriso de verdade. Talvez eu não saiba sorrir tanto assim.

Eu ouviria muito mais do que falaria. Eu responderia com excessivo cuidado, e você perceberia. Eu ficaria angustiada com a certeza dessa percepção e tentaria, claro, atenuá-la. Tentaria, sem sucesso, esconder o medo e o excesso de cuidado.

O medo de estragar alguma coisa incrivelmente sutil e delicada desse primeiro contato e de perder você de novo, para sempre. O medo de acordar algum fantasma que, mesmo escondido em algum sótão, vivo está.

Eu teria medo, metaforicamente, de chegar mais perto do que essa aproximação permitiria.

Mas não teria medo de abrir minhas entranhas e espalhar todas as vísceras ensangüentadas pelo chão. De mostrar a você, em cada uma, onde estão as feridas. De abrir meus lábios e mostrar meus caninos, de mostrar onde ficam as correntes e a focinheira. Não teria medo de mostrar o calendário e explicar como nós, os monstros da lua, nos transformamos. Teria coragem de lhe dar a chave, de lhe ensinar como se tranca a besta, de mostrar as feridas que minhas próprias garras assassinas fizeram na minha carne.

Talvez, só talvez, nem mesmo teria medo de lhe entregar a caixa preta contendo uma única bala de prata.

Mas você não vai voltar e todo esse medo e essa coragem podem ficar guardados. Ficam para outra vida.

Monstro

sistersteel — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 23:32:01 GMT

Monstro.

Gerald Thomas? Não, esse é apenas um escrotinho. De gênio, nunca teve nada exceto um enorme desejo estético. Sempre curtiu parecer gênio, como se excepcionalidade intelectual tivesse alguma estética.

Um bostinha. Causava vergonha alheia com suas caras e bocas no espaço de mídia que medíocre mídia brasileira lhe concedia e concede.

Não, monstro sou eu.

Quando li o relato do ato nojento de violência sexual do Thomas contra Nicole Bahls, alguns filminhos me passaram pela cabeça, pensamentos automáticos, desses que vêm do nada e ficam se repetindo. Neles, eu enfio a mão dentro da calça dele. Em um, agarro o saco flácido e rasgo, com pedaços de carne pendentes e o rosto transfigurado por dor e terror na minha frente. Delícia.

Em outro, é o pau, bem mole, mole de medo, mole de broxisse sexual e intelectual, pau que eu torço como um guardanapo usado. E o rosto transfigurado por dor e terror. Delícia.

O monstro sou eu.

Eu já fiz monstruosidades. Ainda faço. Ando com o short do treino e... saio do carro para pagar no posto de gasolina desconhecido. Desnecessário, eu tenho o meu posto, onde todos me conhecem. Mas não, o monstro faz. Só para sentir a vontade dos homens de mexer comigo, de irem de boca na tentação da minha bunda e, se der muito certo, conseguir que um fale alguma coisa antes que eu vire. E então olhar bem nos olhos do sujeito, sorrir e arrumar os ombros. Eles olham para baixo, saem de perto, com medo, com terror, e eu quase gozo.

“Que ta olhando, nunca viu buceta? Vai andando que se não te encho de porrada”

Fiz isso na rodoviária da Barra Funda em 2006. O sujeito saiu rápido, outros homens se afastaram e algumas mulheres sorriram para mim. Uma perguntou: “você não tem medo, não?”

“Medo? Do que? Tem mais de 700 pessoas só nessa plataforma. O que é que esse bosta pode fazer comigo em público? Nada!”

Foi um poder novo que eu descobri: humilhar homens. Claro que isso requer uma outra atitude. Claro que o meu corpo de atleta faz a mágica dar certo. Mas o que move tudo isso é o ódio de ter sido estuprada aos 16 anos e abusada por vários nesse tempo, sem poder abrir a boca. Obrigada a abaixar a cabeça e consentir.

O custo é alto. Tenho horror a multidão. Tenho horror a gente não ordenada em filas sob o meu controle. O ódio e a reação de luta e destruição se tornaram automáticos. E a cada conflito, pioram.

Quando assisti o filme “Monstro”, com Charlize Theron, sobre a serial killer Aileen Wuornos, fiquei muito perturbada.

Passou.

E agora? Será que terei pesadelos? Arrancarei o pau do Gerald Thomas milhares de vezes pelas noites de sono ruim?

Não sei. Só sei que o que quer que aconteça, a culpa é dele. A culpa de tudo. A culpa até mesmo da conivência de outros com ele. A culpa dos pesadelos da Nicole, dos meus, de milhões de mulheres. A culpa é dele e eu o sentencio, junto com todos os outros iguais a ele, a castração eterna.

Eu os amaldiçôo todos, condeno-os a nunca mais terem pau real ou intelectual, a fertilizar idéias, sonhos ou prazeres. Estão todos condenados ao eterno asco. Condenados a jamais despertar nenhum desejo, nenhum amor e um dia morrerem intoxicados pela gangrena desse pau infértil.

Que medo.

De mim.

Mancha no chão

sistersteel — Thu, 11 Apr 2013 02:57:30 GMT

Há uma mancha no chão.

Não vi agora, não sei quando eu vi. Só sei que não limpei.

Da hora em que se formou a mancha até agora pareço assistir um canal com sinal ruim, onde os quadros hora param, hora somem, hora avançam para uma cena nova que não faz sentido pela falta de outras suprimidas. E não há muito o que fazer com essas imagens sem sincronia. Antena de cérebro, quando dá problema de sincronia é um inferno.

A mancha do chão fica ali, eu a olho com indiferença felina e penso em manchas metafóricas na alma, coisa cansativa. Penso em manchas enormes na ordem das coisas.

Penso que os dez dias de preparo cirúrgico para ir até o Detran me deixaram exausta. Sentei no banco de madeira com as pernas cruzadas. Odeio cadeiras, bancos, tudo. Odeio tudo, essa é a verdade. Odeio tudo, exceto o que amo ou o que me é indiferente. Essa é a verdade.

Uma senhora sentou-se ao meu lado. Senti calor, freqüência cardíaca subindo e a angústia do Leo ao meu lado, pensando na possibilidade de um ataque meu à gordota. A menos de 20 centímetros de qualquer superfície do meu corpo, definitivamente ela tinha violado meu espaço. Isso nunca é bom. A mulher levantou-se e foi embora.

A sala era cheia demais, quente demais, iluminada demais. Os 50 metros de rua que tive que andar, ao lado do Leo, para chegar ali, fediam. Meu deus, como a rua fede. As pessoas fumam. Eu peido, peido não fede. Minha merda não fede. Meus cães não fedem. A carniça do gambá que eles mataram fede um pouco. Cigarro e entranhas de estranhos fedem. A rua fede.

O atendimento foi rápido, mas os 10 dias de pré-cirúrgico deixaram seqüela. O sono maligno e a dor no corpo do pós-trauma.
A mancha no mundo, mancha vermelha como a do chão, do mesmo material, que só cresce.

Mancha feita de pequenos e grandes psicopatas que tomam decisões ilógicas. Renovação de CNH. Motivos tão insustentáveis que até um estudante de primeiro ano recém egresso de lógica I desconstrói.

Lógica I, cadernos de infindáveis exercícios. Eu gostava daquilo, era hipnótico.

Mas os pequenos psicopatas que não cursaram lógica I, nem são movidos por lógica alguma que não seu erótico prazer em provocar desconforto são o motivo de eu estar ali, no Detran. E depois novamente, para uma inspeção anual igualmente ilógica. Mamografia anual é lógico. Inspeção veicular anual é ilógico. Não consigo compreender por que isso requer explicação, já que é lógico.

“Eu quero apenas a receita que você pode ou não escrever e assinar, pouco me interessa sua opinião”, eu pensaria. E ficaria aquele silêncio tenso. “Você gostaria de uma introdução à sociologia das profissões para compreender por que motivo você prescreve um medicamento pelo qual eu vou pagar, além de pagar sua consulta? Sobre como se constrói o monopólio sobre decisões quanto à esfera privada alheia? Começamos pela sociologia ou por Foucault?”, eu pensaria mais. E ele leria minha hostilidade e desprezo.

“Infelizmente esse horário não é bom para mim, melhor desistirmos da consulta”, eu disse. A secretária soou confusa.

A mancha cresce e ameaça devorar o mundo.

Acordo de um desses sonos que não são sono e não sei onde estou.

Estou acordada?

Morri?

Olho para o lado. Se o banheiro estiver do lado esquerdo é Blacksburg ou Gainesville. Se estiver na frente, Brasília. Mas está à direita.

Odeio São Paulo.

Odeio o Brasil.

Penso na gaiola com ratos sangrentos se matando. Não sou eu que estou doente, definitivamente. Então vejo um rosto besta entoando uma bossa-nova e me dizendo “que simplismo behaviorista, companheira”.

Vou limpar aquela mancha no chão.

Emoção sem nome

sistersteel — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 14:20:16 GMT

Eu tenho uma forma engraçada de disosmia: é a capacidade de sentir odores que outros não sentem (e em geral não estão lá). Como não é nem um tumor maligno no cérebro e nem esquizofrenia, ficou por conta da minha tradicional hiper-sensibilidade da amígdala.

Assim, tem cheiros sem nome. Às vezes eu tento descrever através de uma receita: alho podre com cominho. Mais ou menos isso.

Eu também sinto emoções sem nome. Não sei o nome que se daria ao que se sente acompanhado de memórias quase sensoriais de algo perdido para sempre. Não é exatamente saudade. Nem arrependimento, quando a perda foi resultado de um desdobramento de ações fora de nosso controle. Dor, com certeza, mas não só. Fora que é uma dor serena. Comparando a dor do momento de um trauma ósseo com a dor latente que se sente já na cama com o membro engessado, sob sedativos que deixam só aquele background de dor, seria essa última. Uma dor de fundo, só que um pouco mais dolorosa, com algumas ondas e algum prazer quando acompanhada pelas tais memórias quase sensoriais.

A voz dele. Dizendo nada, dizendo qualquer coisa. Apenas a música da voz saindo do auto-falante do computador ou da boca dele, ao meu lado. A voz que tinha o poder de abaixar minha freqüência cardíaca, reduzir a temperatura da minha pele e aprofundar minha respiração. Uma voz ansiolítica.

No que essa emoção difere da que sinto permanentemente em relação à ausência da minha avó, ou quando resgato a memória dela puxando bala de coco na copa ou tocando “Sonata ao Luar” para mim? Talvez essa emoção da falta da minha avó caiba melhor na caixinha de “saudade”. Minha avó morreu. Morreu como conseqüência de ter ficado de saco cheio da perda de qualidade de vida que a velhice lhe causou, então decidiu morrer. Sentou no sofá e em dois meses morreu de um câncer que fabricou para cumprir seu desejo.

Que coisa linda, que coisa certa, que grau supremo de autonomia sobre seu destino. Como eu poderia lamentar o rumo ou desdobramento de fatos que resultaram na ausência dela? Jamais. Celebro, admiro. Mas ficará para sempre a dor da falta dela.

No caso da voz ansiolítica, é bem diferente. A ausência irreversível dela na minha vida é produto de algo que não entendo. Então, está aí, talvez aí o componente que falta para descrever essa emoção sem nome: o desconcertamento, a impotência.

Que emoção complexa, cuja receita leva doses de dor-de-ausência, prazer-na-lembrança, desconcertamento, frustração, impotência, tristeza, abatimento. Enfim, um tipo único de buraco na alma.

Chavões e racionalizações que não são verdade

sistersteel — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 04:28:23 GMT

1. “O destino tira de nossas vidas as pessoas erradas”. Perder pessoas por quem tivemos ou temos muito afeto dói pacas. Às vezes a dor é quase física. Daí vem alguém e inventa um chavão que supostamente deveria nos confortar. Algo na linha de que as pessoas que saem da nossa vida tinham mesmo que sair, é para nosso bem, estavam lá para atrapalhar, etc. Bobagem. Podem ter sido pessoas tóxicas, e aí é bom que as relações tenham mesmo acabado – tenham elas envolvido afeto ou não. Mas podem ter sido relações significativas, importantes, enriquecedoras. Não foi nada bom terem acabado. Vai doer por muito tempo. Talvez o resto da vida. E por mais que a gente escarafunche o cérebro, não vai achar um motivo. É a famosa cadeia de merdas. Em geral começa com uma pequena merda factual, que se soma a outras merdas emocionais e, em muitos casos, principalmente os meus, vem a mega-merda político institucional. Perdi amigos verdadeiros. Não tenho dúvidas de que eram verdadeiros.

2. “Se a amizade for verdadeira, resiste a tudo”. Mentira. Uma boa dose de veneno, coisa muito bem manejada por profissionais da manipulação, ou então ideologia, ou medos, ou outras maluquices, destrói amizades verdadeiras, sim. E para sempre. Os profissionais da manipulação não são “o demo”. Dizer que são é o mesmo que ficar puto porque leões comem filhotes de zebra. O cara é um bosta (sem julgamento), vítima de x ou y circunstâncias sociais, tem inteligência emocional e é frio, não tem escrúpulos, não tem qualificação profissional: pronto! Vai esperar o que de um bicho desses? Cocô não tem perfume de gardênia mesmo que sua dieta seja só gardênia.

3. “Sempre há uma segunda chance”. Também não é verdade. Pode ter, pode não ter. No caso de amores, se eles se consumaram uma vez, a segunda chance em geral é uma tremenda fria em que todo mundo sai machucado. Por outro lado, eu tive uma puta segunda chance quando não morri em 2005. Segundona braba. Do tipo “cara, como você sobreviveu?”. Depois, em 2007, tive uma terceira chance com os 110kg caindo na fuça. Como não arrancou metade da cabeça? Pois é... Deve ser porque eu sou powerlifter: tem três chances.

4. “Copos quebrados não se emendam”. Puxa, se o item anterior é falso para amores e amizades, então este deveria ser verdadeiro. Não é. Já vivi e vi casos de amizades rompidas com violência e depois re-feitas, muitas vezes de maneira definitiva. Me fez até pensar que as verdadeiras amizades precisam passar pelo fogo, assim como as espadas perfeitas. O que também é bobagem. Simplesmente não existe regra.

5. “Se for amor verdadeiro, vai acontecer”. Nada mais falso. Amores verdadeiros só se transformam em relações mediante diversas circunstâncias concretas que freqüentemente não ocorrem, mudam (e aí, por mais verdadeiro que seja o amor, a relação acaba) ou são de fato impossíveis. Mas podem acontecer. Podem acontecer imediatamente, podem demorar semanas, meses, anos...

6. “A justiça tarda mas não falha”. Preciso comentar? Não, né...

7. “Tudo tem um por quê”. Pensamento teleológico sem o menor fundamento científico. No longo prazo, buscar relações causais é perda de tempo. O acaso e as circunstâncias mandam na História – a começar pela nossa.

8. “O tempo cura tudo”. Cura nada. Dores daquelas mega-power não curam nunca. Apenas aprendemos a aceitá-las e viver com elas. Ou não...

ABORT – RETRY - FAIL

sistersteel — Fri, 05 Oct 2012 02:47:30 GMT

Funciona para amigos, amantes, projetos, causas ou missões. Pode doer muito perdê-los (ou pode não doer nada). Se doer, o luto pode parecer não terminar nunca. Pode durar anos. É a primeira coisa em que penso ao acordar e a última ao dormir, tentando entender o irracional. Um dia, do nada, me dou conta de que há um mês não penso mais na coisa perdida. Nesse dia, me parece incompreensível que ela tenha sido importante. Essa sensação é 100% irreversível. Outro dia um personagem do meu passado me procurou – eu não lembrava direito nem do nome dele. Vagamente das circunstâncias. Me dei conta de que aconteceu várias vezes igual. Já disseram que eu sou meio autista: só o que importa é o enigma e o comportamento ilógico alheio não é processável. ABORT – RETRY - FAIL. Até que, sabe-se lá por que, o sistema dá um restart sozinho. Pode ser. Sei lá. Gente irracional, eu pareço deletar. Gente escrota, jamais esqueço. Gente legal, eu curto para sempre. Só que ninguém é “puro-sangue” irracional, escroto ou legal, então não sei como funciona. Puxa, tomara que eu não me delete.