Ego Stigmare - Chapter - Lua

Chapter - Lua …and thus we celebrated the death of yet another ghost, no words could adonize this moment. And again, the moon dialogued with me… she was not the original moon though, perhaps merely a cheap copy, a decoy to attract my attention. My deduction was that the printing work didn’t result, or possibly the crayon’ ink was little… once a copy, always and forever a copy, no copy is better than its original… In a reserved way she was asked if she hated the genuine moon, she retorted that every copy hates the original, not for envy, but because they know… they know that uniqueness evades them for every breath they take.

Lua - I feel just like a cheap copy.
I - What is that makes you feel so cheap?
L - To know the truth, to have the conscience I’m just a copy.
I – Anyway, the moon is overrated. She’s nosy too, always trying to listen to the confidences I make to the Sea.
L – Did she bother you? Well, did she succeed?
I – Not really, we communicate in our own language.
L – I asked if she disturbed you.
I – No, I enjoy her presence.
L – I don’t like that you enjoy my presence.
I – You are not the moon, you are just a copy.
L – Copies always act like the original.
I – And what does a copy do?
L – I cannot say…
I – There are copies more perfect than the original no? But what’s a copy? Who are you?
L – I am the moon’s copy. Lua is the name I subdue my essence to answer to.
I – Yes, but... *who* are you?
L – Maybe I just don’t know anymore. Maybe the only knowledge I have from myself is from the images that gently flow with the Sea. Even so, am I real merely for being reflected? And who or what would scream without a voice if even now is gone?
I – Only if someone should happen to go on by and noticed…
L – These prayers fall on deaf hears. And the answers delay to be received.
I – But there are no questions, merely two hearts hastened on their beat...
L – I have no heart, or have you forgotten that the moon is a woman? Only for what it suits me.
I – I don’t believe in women, nor do I believe in men…mere humans, nothing alike… I believe in superior beings.
L – Do you think of yourself as being superior?
I – I’m not comparable, as for superior… there’s someone out there that is. I’m just different.
L – Are these your beliefs?
I – Perhaps a touch, a fragrance, a deep look? Perfume of a thousand roses flowing at the spring’s winds flavor, a light emancipated from gilded visions.
L – Roses smell like falsehood. They stink of passion, and passion is a forgery.
I – And so, are you false?
L – No, your smell is though.
I – Nonsense, everything that is beautiful smells like roses and I don’t refer to their factual essence, but the idea and to what she instigates.
L – Ridiculous… they smell, inspire and denounce hypocrisy.
I – I prefer azaleas, myrtles and dandelions… but what does it matter, the last star in the sky foresees that in a while everything will end.
L – I have never smelled those.
I – The sun will return, and with him the light that shall conquer the day. And you will be gone, for indefinite time.
L – The sun will rise, but everything will happen as if it’s still night. Everybody behaves as if we were constantly in the dark. As if no one could see what they do, the ghosts that haunt them and the skeletons they store on their closets.
I – Maybe we have been searching light for all this time in all the wrong places… true light will not arrive from the outside, she’s not brought by any star, she’s not dangling on the street’s lamp and she’s not to be looked for… she inhabits within ourselves, she is strong enough to illumine our paths and when the day is over, we will still be part of her.
L – That would be to reach perfection, stability, what’s the fun in that?
I – All the light you may ever come to retrieve will never be eternal, and that’s the fun part. I’ve been told that there’s only one thing eternal in the world, but even it ends.
L – That’s the ironic part I guess, but I never got the joke, I never understood it.
I – Everything ends, but time has very extensive boundaries. Maybe that’s what I’m searching for, endless light. Tell me moon that over me illumines… is that your shine or from another?
L – It’s yours.
I – Are you mine then?
L – For moments, yes. Will you want me until the end? I??… a copy??...
I – For me you will always be the original, for you are all I know as moments end… could eternity be little time if with the ideal company? I bel… I know it would.
L – Why does it have to end then?
I – Things only end, because others have to begin… good things stay forever.
L – And is that the ideal company?
I – Someone I can be with without falling in the banality of using words in order to express ourselves when all I want is to share a beautiful instant of silence. Yours is?
L – Someone that can make me cry.
I – And cleans your face the moment after with his face, so that the tears may stream from both faces?
L – […]

And no replied was ever made from the other side, our closest star was once again reborn and Lua nowhere to be seen… but I exited the beach with a smile on my face, I’ll be seeing her in my dreams.

n. ego

O Neptuniano, A Virgem e o Sagitário

Na passagem pelo além,
Que vá pequeno, vertical e belo,
(Infinitamente destas 3 formas isto é)
O resto são linhas e contornos excessivos:
Beijando-lhe na mão, desconhecendo a razão.
Apontado pelo dedo indicador, soando a doido
A maior parte de, de… de quase todas as vezes,
Sorriso do sempre ausente, presentemente algures,
Algum dia será manhã, e a alvorada é o nosso jardim,
Quando terminará esta noite? A última sempre sem anestesia?
Para mais tarde recordar, vai-se esquecendo, o suave e doce olvido.
Aquele da partilha estonteante, não circunscrita, sem Tempo restante,
Como rememoro esses instantes, tatuados ora em cicatrizes ora em adornos,
Sou o último da minha espécie, em breve partirei e serei parte do enfim Inteiro,
A cada novo avistamento, em cada novo instante, perderei ou acrescentarei,
Para além disso, sou a Aurora Crepuscular, o daymare da magia não avistada:
Por eles, em discurso aparentemente desconexo, apontado e soando a paranóia,
E paranóia é saber exactamente qual a razão pela qual estamos aqui,
Loucura!? É sentir inequivocamente o que somos, a coerência na autodefinição, sermos rendidos,
Externamente por aqueles que não compreendem, que não sentem, que não avistam,
Como nós. E vamos compreendendo, vamos inspirando, vamos beijando o Céu e…
Recuperando a Lua, por cada beijo, mais solitários e perdidos, mais sozinhos e perdidos.
No antagonismo entre a salvação da Obra e consequente Humanidade ou do ritual do Eu;
Contudo, na luminescência das esferas supra-celestes, naquilo tido como estritamente Belo, no singelamente estonteante, no voo alífero, envolvemo-nos lentamente no Etér,
Euoé! Replicado pela colina abaixo, no beijo mais calmo e abundante de todos, aquele que sorri! Aquele que se alastra, que contagia de leveza seus interlocutores e espectadores;
Na partilha, na aceitação, no voo desmedido pela encosta do Sonho, e a Salvação,
Esta sim, tem o nome mais belo de todos, chama-se Amor e começa inicialmente em nós,
Depois, os outros avistá-la-ão por cada sorriso, por cada olhar, a Paixão pela Vida então soletrada em minúsculas (os transeuntes medrosos querê-la-ão para eles), a mais Bela de todas…
A Senhora de Azul Lazuli, a dama que desliza lesta, ora bailando ora estrebuchando,
As Oressas, são este olhar, este sentir, esta verdade plena que só pode ser mentira,
Não há plenitude, apenas ideais e expectativas que, como tal, são apenas isso,
A queda de chuva, a queda do Sol, e os meios-termos que, perfuram a pele,
Estraçalham a alma a quem é diferente, a quem Viver por vezes é vida ausente;
No entanto, tão, tão mas mesmo tão presente, que se vai reflectindo, indiferente,
Ousando oscular o sonho, com coragem suficiente para elevar os braços e beijá-lo,
Isso sim, neste mundo, a maior doença, a falta de inconsciência é presenteada enquanto que…
Oh… soubesse eu o meio-termo exacto, o único meio-termo que vale realmente a pena,
O ponto mediano que apenas sabe o nome de equilíbrio, harmonia e sentido de Ser;
Soubesse então isso e não escreveria mais… jamais… jamais.

n. ego; Rosa M. Gray, Ernesto Encarnação.