Uma frase de Fernando Pessoa de que me lembrei hoje

“To narrate is to create, for living is just being lived.”

Fernando Pessoa (Book of Disquiet)

How many times have you felt the urge to tell a story? To capture a moment, a thought, or a feeling, and give it shape through words? I’d guess most of us have been there, while staring at a blank page or screen, thinking “One day, I’ll write something. One day, I’ll have something to write about, something that feels good.” 

I wrote in the past. Writing used to feel simpler. Before the absurd massification of internet media became such a central part of our lives, people weren’t as concerned about being judged or criticized for what they put out there. I mean, sharing thoughts is at an all time high, and some people seem to thrive in controversy, but for those who search for meaning within words, the internet can be a very unforgiving place. 

Today, it’s easier than ever for anyone to write something and share it instantly on Reddit, Facebook or whatever. Still, I believe we’re all storytellers, not necessarily of a narrative, ideology or structured composition, but of just words. Every photo we take, every conversation we have, every moment we share with others, every thought we have while busy - these are stories in the making, waiting to be written. As in, today I didn't think about when I was younger; I longed for the time when becoming invincible was just waking up on the next day. 

So what’s stopping you? Grab that pen. Open that laptop. Start typing. Remember that your preferred blogging platform won't be there forever, there's AI bots consuming your content now and you are finite. Then start writing (again).

The place with two lagoons

People ask me if I have ever found love;
I say to them that's not important.
They ask me if it wouldn't make me happy;
I say that I'm not that constant.

But when I go to the place with two lagoons
And I see those calm waters
My memory stops by those past moments
That showed me how love matters.

When I'm at the place with two lagoons
My heart turns so brightly blue.
Sitting by the mirrored sky shows me
That it was love and it was true.

But today people ask me if it was worth it
And with a shut mouth I respond.
They're not so silly after all
Because they know there was no bond.

Meeting

The soul began its eternal path.
As I walk into the empty room
That is my heart, I see the center
That's full of roses in it.

A lifeless man lies there
And his bloody corpse
Fill the the entire floor in red.

I couldn't stand one minute
Alone with the dark roses
fading to the dripping blood;
So I ran outside.

Standing in the narrow way
was another man, blocking me:
not letting me get away.

As I look upon his face,
I came to recon myself.
There I was, living in the death.
Trying hopelessly to fight
that one figure who for once
stood firmly.

Then there was
blood in my face.

Feels

Be good my little son.
Our hope. Our fortune.
Leave, but don't.
Listen carefully and learn
how life twists and turns.

But close your eyes.
Be brave and fearless
and make yourself a fool.
Like this, son, you'll never lose.

Hung on the rope tight.
To love is to die, you'll see.
Leave, listen and learn.
You'll be a man.

Be sound, little child.

There you are

There you are, on the wave beneath
the time, attached to the place you see.
Focused in your illusion, on the relieve
of thousands drowned in the stormy sea.

There you are, at the sparky height of low,
believing on the flawless dream you've been.
Regardless the time and place you follow
the ones who thought they'd never seen.

There you are, beauty prodigy who stare
the light that blurs the pathway to lore.
Turning the soft reality to an harsh nightmare,
you find yourself struggling to go ashore.

There you are, noticing the sweet redemption
that is closer than the wave you were on.
The end is near, the thunder I hear.

You've fallen dead and cold,
the future to your son you sold,
he is now the one who thinks
you'd never seen the thousand sinks.

English attempt

The birds are discontinuously singing outside. It's a sign: autumn's here. The lying season, the coarse god's masterpiece. As the spring crosses the other side of the circle, warming the people, hopelessly, the beginning of the cold mixes with my hot tempered heart. Yes, I think it's fake. The passion, the love, the things I should feel when spring begins, when the hope begins, these things... I'm feeling all of them now. 

When a leave falls, the ground stills strong. When the cold wind brings the sadness and the monotony, my soul remains loud and hot like an echo that deafens the surroundings. It's like a lollipop with a sugar topping: bitter when you first taste it, but delicious when you begin to be used to it.