Filme do Desassossego Page #2

---

Oh touch me soon, now.

What is this word

that everyone knows?

I am here alone and still

and also sad.

Touch me,

touch me just as I am.

Just as I am.

Everything or nothing.

Everything or nothing.

But everything is imperfect.

There's no sunset so lovely

it couldn't be yet lovelier,

no gentle breeze bringing us sleep that

couldn't bring a yet sounder sleep.

I leave who will to stay

shut up in their rooms,

sprawled out on beds

where they sleeplessly wait,

and I leave who will

to chat in the parlours,

from where their songs and voices

conveniently drift out here to me.

I'm sitting at the door,

feasting my eyes and ears

on the colours and sounds

of the landscape,

and I softly sing, for myself alone,

wispy songs I compose while waiting.

Night will fall on us all

and the coach will pull up.

Decadence is the total loss

of unconsciousness,

which is the very basis of life.

Could it think,

the heart would stop beating.

For those few like me who live without

knowing how to have life,

what's left but renunciation as our way

and contemplation as our destiny?

What is the weight

when you say "weight"?

The law of the fall of the body.

Everyone falls on the ground.

On earth.

The force of earth's

gravity is the weight.

A cup of coffee, a cigarette and my

dreams can substitute quite well

for the universe and its stars, for work,

love, and even beauty and glory.

All that we know is our own impression,

and all that we are is an exterior

impression.

I need virtually no stimulants.

I have opium enough in my soul.

I have to choose what I detest,

either dreaming,

which my intelligence hates,

or action, which my sensibility loathes,:

Detesting both, I chose neither,:

But since I must on occasion either

dream or act,

I mix the two things together.

I have no theories about life.

I don't know or wonder

whether it's good or bad.

In my eyes it's harsh and sad,

with delightful dreams

interspersed here and there.

Why should I care

what it is for others?

Other people's lives are of use

to me only in my dreams,

where I live the life

that seems to suit each one.

I start to wonder how I'm able to go on,

how I dare have the faint-heartedness

to be here among these people.

Like flashes from a distant lighthouse,

I see all the solutions offered by the

imagination's female side:

Flight, suicide, renunciation...

They weren't even sufficiently dirty.

Those who truly suffer don't form

a group or go around as a mob.

Those who suffer, suffer alone.

What a pathetic group!

What a lack of humanity and true pain!

They were real and therefore

unbelievable.

No one could ever use them

for the scene of a novel

or a descriptive blackdrop.

They went by like rubbish in a river,

in the river of life,

and to see them go by made me sick

to my stomach and profoundly sleepy.

Absurdity is divine.

Let's develop theories, patiently and

honestly thinking them out,

in order to promptly act against them.

Let's buy books so as not to read them;

let's go to concerts without caring to

hear the music or to see who's there;

let's take long walks because

we're sick of walking;

and let's spend whole days in the

country because it bores us.

To find our personality by losing it,

faith itself endorses this destiny.

I seek and don't find.

I want and can't have.

Without me the sun rises and expires;

without me the rain falls

and the wind howls.

It's not because of me

that there are seasons,

the twelve months,

time's passage.

Lord of the world in me which, like

earthly lands, I can't take with me...

What Hells and Purgatories

and Heavens I have inside me!

But who sees me do

anything that disagrees with life,

me, so calm and peaceful?

I yank from my neck a hand

that was choking me...

A cold hand squeezes my throat

and prevents me from breathing life.

Everything is dying in me, even

the knowledge that I can dream!

Where is God, even if he doesn't exist?

I envy all people, because I'm not them.

All of a sudden, as if a surgical

hand of destiny

had operated

on a long-standing blindness

with immediate

and sensational results,

I lift my gaze from my anonymous life

to the clear recognition of how I live.

And I see that everything I've done,

thought or been is a species

of delusion or madness.

I don't know if I have a fever,

as I feel I do,

or if I've stopped having the

fever of sleeping through life.

But the city is unknown to me,

the streets are new and the trouble

has no cure.

And so, leaning over the bridge,

I wait for the truth to go away

and let me return to being fictitious

and non-existent, intelligent and natural.

After I've slept many dreams, I go out

to the street with eyes wide open

but still with the aura and assurance

of my dreams.

And I'm astonished by my automatism,

which prevents others

from really knowing me.

And I walk in the right direction,:

I don't stagger,:

I react well,:
I exist.

But that sudden light scorches

everything, consumes everything.

It strips us naked of even ourselves.

Everyone has his alcohol.

To exist is alcohol enough for me.

Drunk from feeling, I wander as

I walk straight ahead.

When it's time, I show up at the office

like everyone else.

When it's not time, I go to the river to

gaze at the river, like everyone else.

I'm no different.

And behind all this,

O sky my sky,

I secretly constellate

and have my infinity.

What if I threw myself in there?

They are not that stupid!

Excuse me Sir,

I'm lost and I don't have anything...

I don't get indignant,

because indignation is for the strong;

I'm not resigned,

Because resignation is for the noble;

I don't hold my peace,

Because silence is for the great.

And I'm neither strong,

Nor noble,

Nor great.

I suffer and I dream.

I complain because I'm weak.

And since I'm an artist,

I amuse myself

by making my complaints musical

and by arranging my dreams

according to my idea

of what makes them beautiful.

I only regret

Not being a child,

Since then I could believe

In my dreams...

And a deep and weary disdain for all

those who work for mankind,

for all those who fight for their country

and give their lives so that

civilization may continue...

Everything useful and external

tastes frivolous and trivial

in the light of my soul's

supreme reality

and next to the

pure sovereign splendour

of my more original

and frequent dreams.

Sometimes I feel, I'm not sure why,

a touch of foretold death...

And then I wonder what this thing is

that we call death.

I don't mean the mystery of death,

which I can't begin to fathom,

but the physical sensation

of ceasing to live.

Whenever I see a dead body,

death seems to me a departure.

The corpse looks to me like

a suit that was left behind.

Someone went away and didn't need to

take the one and only outfit he'd worn.

The coffin is so small!

On what side the head lays?

Usually it's on the side where the

cross is, but the cross is in the middle.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes