things that come to mind

 

Tock...
Echo...
Tock...
Echo...

Repeatedly, the hard wooden sole echoed through the deserted, dimly lit street. The cold, dry night prolonged and stretched into the emptiness the echo of his footsteps.

Where was he? Where was he walking? It mattered little. He always ended up in the same place—to nowhere. His purpose, only one: to lose himself.

As he walked, his thoughts lost themselves in a single feeling, falling into the void, swallowed up.

Not to see, not to hear, to walk.

Without noticing, little by little, the worn intensity of the lights was gradually withdrawn. The streetlamps went out, slowly. Walls and houses lost their substance.

He continued on, blind, deaf.

Tap...
Vvv...
Tap...
Vvv...

A new echo resounded...

Tap...
Vvv...
Tap...
Vvv...

This one settled within him, like gentle caresses upon one who sleeps. It awakened him slightly, stemming the flow of thoughts that ran straight toward alienation.

He raised his head and looked. Behind him and before him, the streetlamps were extinguished, concealing the silhouette of the houses and filling the ends of the street with blackness. But, on the opposite side of the street, a streetlamp projected its bright white light upon the bent back of a man.

He wore dirty, worn-out rags. His greasy hair spread in a rebellious dishevelment. His hands, grey with earth, raised a pointed chisel that dragged itself across the wall.

Tap...
Vvv...
Echo...

He looked at the man, looked at the wall, saw it furrowed with hundreds, thousands of words. Words crowded together, without any syntactic connection. From them, only their own morphological meaning could be extracted—obscure, singular, exclusive.

Interwoven with the fricative echo produced by the scraping of the chisel came the dull, worn sound of the man's voice.

"I was waiting for you," said one.

"I was looking for you," said the other.

Emptiness is everywhere and nowhere!

It surrounds us, it covers with her mantle the body of our existence. It’s in things, inside things, outside things, in-between things, around us, inside us. Is real, corporeal. Not a metaphysical abstraction. You can feel it, sense it, intuit it, touch it, eat it, scream it! And even so we try... Time and time... To complete it, to fill it. Oh! The delusion of denial, that this thing isn't us, it doesn't makes us, and that can be fulfilled by... things. Only the circle can complete it, the construction of the  deconstruction of the construction. Ouroboros! Fulfillment by unfulfillment, filling aby emptying. Emptiness is everywhere and nowhere. In the meantime, I have bills to pay!

Murmuring a murmur in the murmuring sea.
The sound softly whispers soothing me.
Tears tearing through the roars wave
Undulating broken by his shadow edge.

 
I whisper the murmur of a lullaby's refrain,
That tears through time and makes it stay.
The horizon smudges in a blur of orange
Is dusk? Is dawn? Something calls me...

 
I brush a caress on the membrane of the air,
It dances through the world, without haste or fear.
It pulls the water, pushes the foam,
I sway fixed to the music's tone.

 
I meditate and feel without certainty,
Something intimate within existence.
The deaf mute sound of the thing-in-itself,
Vibrates with life the Pi static.

______________________________________

(Pt original version)

Murmuro murmurando no murmúrio do mar.
O som sussurra suave para me aclamar.
Range rasgando o rugido da onda
Ondeando quebrada pelas orlas da sombra.

 
Sussurro o murmúrio de uma canção de embalar,
Que rasga o tempo e o faz prolongar.
Esborrata o horizonte borra laranja,
Anoitece ou alvora? Algo me chama…

 
Roço um afago na membrana do vento,
Dança sobre o mundo, com vagar, sem medo.
Puxa a água, empurra a espuma,
Meneio-me fixo ao ritmo da música.

 
Medito e sinto sem ter a certeza,
Algo do íntimo de toda a existência.
Surdo som mudo da coisa em si,
Vibra viva a estática em pi.

A branquez em tudo
É o sol que pela água extravasa.
Reflete-se em si e em tudo,
E em nada.

São pérolas, são pérolas a cair,
Milhares que pela rua empedrada se desfazem como água,
Assim chove, chuva branca.
Salpicos de fragmentos, de pérolas, de pingos,
Escorrem pelo dorso dobrado de quem passa.
Pelas ruas, avenidas, pelos carros que correm,
Pelas pessoas que se movem.
Foge tudo em languidos movimentos,
Abafados pela trajetória dos fragmentos,
Nem se apercebem da beleza branca,
Que ao seu redor clama.