I feel the interval of the jumps, I hear the wind that strikes the windows, I open them and I see nothing else. Love passes in an instant, a particular, heavy, vital temporal. I made a point of ignoring the losses, the deviations, the disappointments that always went hand in hand. Until it did not, and I did not realize it. Each passing day I miss more of these passing paths, the summer rain they call desire, love, affection, for which I gave myself (in depth) – until they drowned me. Storm that scares, breaks half said of things but irrigates the plantations, prepares the crops. The days were ruined so that they would come; expectations downhill, followed by unexpected happiness. I only feel that I have already enjoyed more, that I have loved more, and today I am less, surrounded by stories in half, lost in my own labyrinths. I wish I had been ideal, less self-centered, immune to the slaps of time, and whoever I had, and whoever I was. I’ve wanted it so badly that it’s almost banal now; because I complain about everything I’ve gone through, everything that still hurts, and if I could go back in time (hypocritical like myself) I would do it all over again.
Written by: Perina (@naoperina)
Translate by: @rascunhodraft