Ando entretido com um conto que ando a escrever. Hei-de regressar em breve porque tenho uma carta aberta para escrever ao Tiago Guillul
(sobre a música a religião e o panque-roque que ele faz produz e promove)
. Eu sei que ele, vai desprezar os meus reparos, mas eu não me importo. Nesse sentido, sou um mártir intelectual de centro-esquerda.
Até lá, fica um parágrafo daquilo que estou a escrever
(um trabalho que longe de estar na forma final ainda está em construção e que é a minha primeira experiência com a língua inglesa)
:
“The post-elation-chill was terrible. My self-awareness, the desire of being the woman, the one who danced, the one who had dared to dance naked, who was so in control of one's body
(the self-assurance i always lacked made me feel embarrassed by my stout and bulky figure some sort of old-fashioned-worn-out-athlete)
. Your hips hovering and your arms going to and fro
(how many times i had imagined you dancing and when i saw you dancing when you were perfectly naked and undressed i hated you for being you and not me. how in that moment i would have swapped bodies)
with melancholic harmony of sensuality achieved. But the reality that I could not be you, that I would have to endure my body until I was no more, left me ecstatic. And despite knowing the you were near, few centimeters away even, I felt alone because you were here.”