Bread or So They Say

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A casa está feita de silêncios. Meus silêncios e os teus silêncios que ficaram sobre a mesa. Que fizeste antes de morrer? Me deixaste tantas surpresas. Até mesmo a tua morte foi uma surpresa.
Lingering.

Já misturo os idiomas como bem podes ver. No princípio eu pensava que aparecerias para me explicar. Hoje tua falta é quase orgânica. Sonho contigo quase toda a noite. Não há contentamento. Não rezo antes de dormir. Há noites, como a de ontem, em que adormeço com a escova de dentes dentro da boca e me engasgo com a saliva e a espuma. A pele do queixo arde. E me levanto correndo para buscar água.

Ainda não comecei a trabalhar no tal do livro. Incrível como te tornaste, como passaste a me apoiar. E mais incrível ainda é que tuas palavras já não ressoam. Quais são as razões. Quero entender os motivos pelos quais as coisas demoram tanto para mim. Tu demoraste. E eu me cobro e me entedio e me exaspero, mas ainda assim não faço. Espero pelo dia da idéia genial, pelo dia da tua chegada.

O trabalho me aguarda. Quanto tempo eu terei investido em me dilacerar escrevendo para nada. Qual é a significância de escrever? Não há. Te espero como Cortazar esperava pela Maga. Ou não era ele. Era apenas ficção. Será que as pessoas escrevem sempre sobre si mesmas por não saberem ser outra coisa? E eu quem vou inventar?

Amanheço igual todos os dias. Quero jogar minha xícara gigantesca, cheia de café e sobras de amor, contra a parede. Quero ver o café forte e quente se espalhar. Destruir as lembranças, criar. Estou farta de comer migalhas. Embora a Celeste sempre te dissesse que migalhas também são pão.

Não me peças para que eu fique. Nem para que eu escreva qualquer coisa bonita. Tu me pediste literatura de alegria. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Acabou-se.

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