Fifteen Years Later: Confession, Bond, and Redemption

 “Leave me alone! Forget me!”

I wanted to wish you a happy birthday, but that is far too simple, and you either do not care or you do not care about mere words. In any case, I no longer even know you, considering that fifteen years have already passed. Nevertheless, my wishes for your happiness remain. I left you in peace many years ago, and you know that for a long time now I have not been “stalking” you. I do not look at Facebook or Instagram, nor at academic publications, let alone content on Spotify or YouTube.

I learned a very important lesson in a toxic relationship I once had and, from that experience, I discovered through lived reality the reason why I have a duty to let you live in peace. The feeling of possession, of control, jealousy mixed with hints of envy, is the worst thing one human being can feel towards another, and I experienced this first-hand. To reach where I wish to arrive, I must first make a brief digression, because I need to speak to you directly and, at the end, ask for your blessing, so that both your spirit and mine may live in peace. Perhaps not in happiness, but in peace. The truth is that after you I was never again able to love anyone. I never again had a real relationship. All of them were based purely on interest, sometimes physical interest, at other times emotional interest, and once or twice purely financial interest, which ended up corrupting part of my being. But let us turn to the digressions:

Believe it or not, I am a kind of ‘fallen angel’. I am not the sort of ‘demon’ as popular culture describes it; I am a kind of ‘investigative’ spirit whose principal mission is message-bearing and communication with the higher plane. In general terms, I am a messenger. This grants me passage through territories that most people do not even imagine exist. Yes, I can walk through hell and through what Christians call ‘purgatory’. I do not, however, have access to the heavens, as I am forbidden to enter them by a higher will and also as a consequence of misguided choices I have made on this material plane, such as the consumption of toxic substances, lust, and so on; the list of sins is extensive.

Nevertheless, God Almighty and merciful granted me a chance at redemption, and here I am. I cannot say exactly what my mission here is, or perhaps at times I am lazy, but what matters is that I have a kind of ‘free pass’ to walk through spiritual planes.

From this, I infer that my task is to record the works, the paths, and the arts of the Enemy and of his servants here on this material plane. Our Lord Almighty already knows all of this, yet I must carry out a form of inventory: to speculate, to dilute his methods, and to reveal his presence wherever it may be.

The Enemy does not welcome my presence here and, despite the fact that I possess a divine safeguard, he attempts to attack me by every means available. The truth is that he cannot attack me directly because of divine protection. In response, he can attack all those around me who are weak or who have weakened in the course of their faith: those who do not believe or who mock God, those who are excessively bound to the weaknesses of the flesh, those who lack mercy, and so forth. The list is extensive.

In this way, the Enemy uses people close to me who possess spiritual weaknesses to attack me, with a single objective: that they kill me, so that my soul may perhaps be sent to hell. Yet the Enemy forgets that, despite possessing many powers and tricks, God stands above all things, and that there is no force nor any power except in the Most High Father, amen.

This occurred in a toxic relationship I once had, entered into out of pure financial interest, and the outcome was far from favourable. My former girlfriend truly wishes to kill me and, in some manner, she realises that she failed to do so because of divine will. I feel deep pity for her, for I know that it is not she who truly desires this, but rather the malevolent forces to which she has improperly surrendered herself.

We have been apart for several years, and the fact is that, just as I once was with you — that is, unwilling to forget you, driven by a feeling of possession, wanting you exclusively for myself — so too is this former girlfriend of mine. Yet, even though I was immature and selfish, I never wished her any harm, my distant friend Kárie. At heart, I was merely immature and lacked full knowledge of my own emotions. This former girlfriend of mine, whose name I do not dare pronounce, is entirely different. She harbours a mixture of ‘love’ and hatred, something extremely dangerous, and she operates through any hidden paths available to harm me.

Knowing this, one day I used one of my gifts to invade her dream. I entered her dream without her realising it and began to manipulate events so as to fulfil all her wishes. The first desire she revealed was to see me suffer greatly for many years and then die in the most torturous manner possible. I shall not disclose the details, in order to spare you the time, but the level of cruelty was extreme, and in the end she laughed uncontrollably and felt complete. Yet I did not stop there. After she had seen that her wish had been fulfilled, I continued to feed her desire. She then asked for what every human being on this planet desires: first, beauty, a beautiful body, a flawless face, the sensuality of movement. Then she asked for money, so that she might spend it and humiliate those beneath her. Finally, she asked for power, eventually attaining a position of very high authority in society. She was entirely happy, fulfilled, and satisfied, for all her desires had been realised, until a certain moment in the dream when she sensed that something was amiss. She felt my presence and, for a few milliseconds, I was almost trapped in her dream, unable to return, such was the fury she experienced upon realising that she had been deceived and that, in the end, everything had been an illusion.

My purpose in invading her dream was purely didactic: I wished to demonstrate that there is only one kind of power in this world that grants us everything we ask for, namely, the power of the Enemy. God, by contrast, never gives us what we ask for; God gives us only what is necessary for our spiritual refinement. Herein lies the great difference between what belongs to the plane of the Malignant and what belongs to the plane of the Divine. To love God means sacrifice, patience, knowledge, respect, and things that demand great effort. The Adversary of humanity, on the other hand, offers only easy things, such as immediate pleasure, conquest, ambition, and selfishness.

From that point onward, my former girlfriend came to hate me even more. I do not know what she may be capable of doing, yet I am unconcerned, for there is no power that can be compared with God. The blood of Jesus Christ was shed precisely for this reason, to protect us from this kind of threat, and whatever must come to pass will come to pass, with the blessing of our beloved Lord.

Now you must be wondering: what kind of madness is this, and what does it have to do with you? This is where you come in. When we ended our relationship fifteen years ago, there was some kind of spiritual rupture, for we were very closely bound, almost like siblings. This never happened to me again, and I am certain it never will. I do not like to speculate, yet I am almost certain that, although you may have loved or cared for someone else, you did not experience this either. Such things do not happen frequently, nor do they happen to everyone.

You too are a spiritual agent. I do not know whether you are also a messenger like me, but that is of little importance. What matters is that we share a connection, something that lies beyond the material plane, and when we separated we created a definitive rupture. I want it to be very clear that I do not wish to speak with you, I do not expect you to read this or to respond, I do not wish to be your friend, and I expect nothing. That is untrue: I do hope that you read this text carefully, for the very purpose of writing it is to ask for your blessing. You may argue that I should ask this of God, and I already have. All the spiritual paths that have been indicated to me point to the fact that I need something that only you can give me.

I need your blessing, and in some way you need it as well. We must free ourselves from this cycle of violence and hatred.

I want you to understand that, although I am protected by God, my choices greatly limit my paths, and I am not immune to spells. To be as direct as possible, I believe that I have been cursed in such a severe manner that I am no longer able to form relationships with any woman. It is as though there were a blockage, an invisible wall, something malevolent that prevents anyone from approaching me, and you know exactly what I am referring to. In this respect, if one compares it with the end of our relationship, you blessed me, you set me free, you wished me happiness. After you, many different women appeared in my life, and I had dozens of relationships. The sole reason none of them succeeded or developed into a serious relationship was that I did not want them to, for my selfishness still bound me to you, Kárie.

There is more. This person of whom I speak knows of your existence and hates you as much as she hates me, because one day I ended up confessing to her that I had loved only one person in my life. This caused no small disturbance in her mind, and she seeks revenge. As she cannot accomplish this revenge in the material world, she turns to the demands of the spiritual realm.

I ask for your blessing. We need to free ourselves from this. I do not know exactly what you must do, yet one thing I do know: only you are capable of breaking this spell, only you are capable of freeing yourself and freeing me from this prison. I do not know whether you must pray for me, nor which spiritual paths you should follow; I have no idea. I know only that you are the key to both your own liberation and happiness and to mine.

I do not hold you responsible, and I understand your reasons. Yet the choice of silence throughout all these years created a very strong barrier, almost unbreakable, a wall of lamentation in which our losses have accumulated over time, and as a result neither you nor I can be fully happy.

See, I am not asking you to break your vow of silence. I am asking you to seek the truth. In the same way that it appeared to me, it must have appeared to you as well. I earnestly ask that, just this once, you listen to me. Bless me, release me from this cycle in the name of God Almighty.

You deserve to be happy, I deserve to be happy, and even my former girlfriend deserves to be happy. She will never realise that she is merely a puppet in the Enemy’s sadistic games, regardless of how I attempt to demonstrate this, and we know that there is only one force capable of defeating this Evil. Only love exists. Pure, surrendered love is blessed by God, capable of breaking any chain, redeeming any fear, crossing any valley of the shadow of death, going down into hell and returning in safety.

I need you to set me free. And, so that it is clearly marked, I am not attempting to manipulate you into speaking with me, nor am I expecting anything in return. The purpose is to celebrate your birthday and, at the same time, to speak of something serious that has troubled me, and troubled you, for these fifteen years.

Please, Kárie, you need to release this energy. I cannot tell you what you must do, yet I can tell you this: seek God, and when you seek Him, the answers will come. Only He can tell you what must be done. I have no idea.

From the moment you fulfil your destiny and free yourself from these bonds, I too shall be free. If what I have asked is done, you will never again see a post of mine on this blog, and, as agreed upon spiritually, I will never even think of you again. When I do, it will be to bless you and to wish you the very best, far away from me.

Shabbat Shalom, my sister. Remain in the peace of the Lord.

C. H. H. Barbosa - Bond and redemption 

E a verdade vos libertará

 

Durante muito tempo fiquei me questionando, como na última postagem, a respeito do seu silêncio. Demora algo eterno para que possamos nos dar conta dos próprios erros, antes de sairmos acusando os outros. É conveniente acusá-la. É complicado para um ego revirado de emoções conseguir colocar os dois pés no chão. Vou tentar fazê-lo depois de todo esse tempo.

O reconhecimento é um dos fatores essenciais para a mudança do sujeito. Por exemplo, o jovem Werther apenas se deu conta do seu disparate amoroso ao ver um outro rapaz, jovem e enlouquecido por Carlota. Esse louco de amor era o próprio Werther, ou o futuro que apareceu para ele sobre o reflexo de outro pessoa, então ele finalmente reconheceu que o casal Carlota e Alberto eram seus amigos, e que ele não deveria ter sentimentos apaixonados por ela. A solução de Werther foi pegar duas pistolas emprestadas com Alberto e cometer suicídio.

O reconhecimento pode ser um processo duro, mas é um processo de renovação e ressurreição. Também pode ser fatal, como foi o caso de Werther. Depois de muito tempo e muita leitura, ainda não havia chegado no ponto nevrálgico do meu próprio inconformismo com a separação.

Custa muito para mim reconhecer que no final de tudo, eu acabei matando você. Não daquela morte física, onde o corpo é extinguido e as dores e sucessos são resguardados para um plano além da matéria. Não. Uma morte muito pior do que essa. Eu matei aquilo que havia de inocente, de puro, de angélico, de natural em você, e depois ainda exigia uma explicação sobre isso, até ontem queria saber os motivos pelos quais você tem me desprezado por tantos anos. O absurdo da situação é análogo a um assassino que questiona a vítima, já morta, sobre o motivo dela não falar.

Este reconhecimento surgiu como parte dos meus estudos. Sendo um ciumento e reconhecendo em mim mesmo a natureza vil e mesquinha desse sentimento, me dedico a um projeto de pesquisa onde pretendo analisar a forma enciumada de Bento Santiago a partir do materialismo histórico e dialético. Como você fez o mesmo curso que eu, sabe que os estudos literários fazem mais sentidos quando estão à luz de uma comparação congênere. Pois bem, estou comparando essa forma enciumada de Bento Santiago com uma outra de um romance da primeira fase machadiana.

E foi justamente no romance de Machado de Assis, denominado Ressurreição que descobri e pude reconhecer a sua morte. Félix é a personagem principal da obra, um homem limitado e incapaz de amar verdadeiramente. Seu ciúme de Lívia é tão intenso que tudo o incomoda, um silêncio, um gesto, uma palavra, enfim, tudo é motivo para o ciumento acusar a parceira de algo que sequer passou pela cabeça dela. E Lívia ama Félix profundamente, ao ponto de mesmo estar sendo ferida por acusações e desconfianças, ela ainda continua com ele. Como uma doença degenerativa, o amor de Lívia começa a diminuir, mas mesmo assim ela continua amando Félix.

O clímax da narrativa se passa com uma carta, escrita por um invejoso de Félix e que assume um papel de Iago, onde diz que Lívia havia traído e matado seu finado ex-marido. Félix prefere acreditar na carta do que nela. Na verdade, Félix só queria mais um pretexto, pois ele tinha ciúme até do fato dela respirar.

Félix estava para casar com Lívia quando recebe essa carta e acaba abandonando o plano, frustrando definitivamente a moça. Depois disso, Lívia nunca mais foi a mesma, passou a viver reclusa, triste, pois ela ainda o amava, mesmo havendo se passado mais de dez anos, mas Lívia sabia que não poderia sob hipótese alguma ceder a esse amor, porque junto com este viria o atroz ciúme com seus véus de loucura.

Resumindo, Félix mata Lívia, ele mata uma pessoa inteligente, meiga, delicada e a coloca numa reclusão sentimental, em um retiro para proteção do próprio coração. É desse tipo de morte que até então não havia me dado conta. O mesmo acontece em Dom Casmurro, pois a personagem principal e narrador não-confiável, tem um ciúme do tipo doentio por Capitolina, um ciúme voraz que é capaz de devorar tudo e todos ao redor. Com a diferença que em Ressurreição a morte é do tipo emocional e em Dom Casmurro a morte é corporal. Falemos disso adiante. 

Dentro da minha linha de pesquisa o ciúme não entra como uma questão moral e sim como um assunto do plano material. Bento Santiago enxerga Capitu como parte das suas propriedades, uma extensão do seu capital e, portanto, ela deveria se comportar de acordo com o que a classe social e a condição ditam. Contudo, Capitu é linda, inteligente, comunicativa, sabe se adaptar às dificuldades de classe, corajosa e tudo isso causava uma profunda inveja em Bento Santiago.

Não sei se sentia inveja de você, mas o ciúme, tenho toda certeza. Eu a admirava, pois apesar de ser muito jovem você era dedicada, já sabia inglês, entendia muito mais de gramática do que eu e estava com a mente fresca pois acabara de sair do ensino médio. Sim, eu a admirava e você me admirava ainda mais, mesmo que na época eu fosse muito mais pedante do que inteligente.

Talvez nem você tenha parado para pensar nisso. O motivo de não falar comigo é porque você morreu. Um tipo de morte especial que funciona apenas para mim, que foi o assassino. E o que eu matei em você? Eu matei uma pessoa que acreditava no amor, na confiança, na amizade, no carinho, na reciprocidade das emoções e muito mais do que isso, você era jovem, pura e inocente.

Depois que namoramos por dois anos e meio (acredito eu), você absorveu parte do meu pessimismo, da minha perfídia, do meu cinismo. Há algo de mim dentro de você, pois essa capacidade de resolução, essa decisão de não voltar atrás, parece muito mais comigo do que com você, antes de ter morrido nas minhas mãos. Eu fui cruel sem saber, esmaguei a semente de algo que poderia brotar e dar flores magníficas, como um furacão desvairado, varri aquilo que havia de ingênuo no seu coração.

Se é verdade que há algo de mim dentro de você, também é verdade que há algo de você dentro de mim, pois eu também morri, eu acabei me matando, me consumindo nessas chamas ardentes do ciúme. Ao ponto de mesmo não estando mais contigo, eu ainda sentia ciúme de ti. Não me acuse de tolo, pois demorou muito anos para que eu tivesse essa iluminação, que só pode ser obra divina. Por mim mesmo continuaria remoendo meus sentimentos egoísticos.

Não importa se Capitu traiu ou não Bento Santiago. O que importa é que sabemos que ele é inseguro, medroso, covarde e quer nos convencer e convencer a si mesmo da sua ingenuidade. Palavras que não são minhas, mas de Hellen Caldwell e Roberto Schwarz. Quando der aulas em escolas, vou realizar o julgamento de Bento Santiago em sala de aula, pois ainda me lembro de você ter me dito que no seu período escolar vocês fizeram o julgamento de Capitu (e também o julgamento de Adolf Hitler na aula de história e, curiosamente, você representou a advogada de defesa do genocida. Só você mesma para ter essa liberdade de espírito, sendo judia e representando, no mundo da ficção, a advogada do partido nacional socialista).

O julgamento de Bento Santiago faz muito mais sentido, pois só temos a versão dele, como até então o leitor dos meus escritos tem apenas a minha versão. Bento Santiago se coloca ao mesmo tempo como réu, investigador, advogado e juiz. É uma personagem perigosa com indícios de sadismo e psicopatia, e é inevitável não reconhecer que eu tinha muito desse Dom Casmurro dentro de mim.

Apenas divagando um pouco, a minha hipótese, ancorada nas leituras de Hellen Caldwell sobre o Otelo brasileiro, é a de que Bento Santiago eliminou Capitu fisicamente, só que da mesma forma que não podemos ter certeza sobre a traição, não podemos ter certeza sobre o assassinato. Mas há fortes indícios na obra que uma leitura close-reading, tanto de Dom Casmurro quanto de Otelo me fizeram perceber. Machado de Assis era leitor de Edgar Allan Poe e conhecia os métodos do escritor gótico americano. O bruxo também conhecia Shakespeare e tinha um plano de desconstruir os ideais românticos da fase literária anterior.

Enfim, dizem que de tudo fica um pouco. Ficou um pouco da sua sensibilidade em mim e por isso sou eternamente grato. Aprendi a ser inteligente, disciplinado, organizado graças a você. Sua companhia me fez muito bem, e mesmo com o meu ciúme, acredito ter feito algo de bom para sua vida emocional e profissional. Espero eu que não tenha sido só negativo, caso contrário não teríamos ficado junto por dois anos que seja.

Hoje eu sou um coroa solitário, com pouquíssimos amigos, gasto o meu tempo estudando literatura, no meu projeto de pesquisa, estudando xadrez, aprendendo a tocar violão e jogando videogame. Sim, pode falar que eu nunca vou crescer e você tem razão. Sei o quanto você detestava o fato deu jogar videogame e de alguma forma o violão não te trazia boas lembranças, mas não entremos a esmiuçar feridas em hora indevida.  

Ainda vou imprimir suas teses de mestrado e doutorado e ler. Quando o fizer vou escrever algo sobre. Não que você se importe, não que irá mudar algo na nossa vida, mas aquilo que está morto não pode morrer novamente, esse é o saldo positivo de tudo isso. Ambos morremos há muito tempo e renascemos para o mundo com outros propósitos. Sua morte foi rápida e a minha foi lenta, mas passamos pelo mesmo processo e agora estamos aqui, ressuscitados.

Para finalizar queria dizer que você nunca será uma inimiga, pois mesmo em silêncio você tem sido a melhor de todas. Seu silêncio é a minha lição de vida, quem sabe na próxima eu aprendo. Paciência é a chave. Peço perdão para você, não com o intuito de que você aceite, pois você não pode nem deve aceitar esse pedido. Peço perdão para reconhecer que errei durante muitos anos e não sabia que havia errado.

Como iniciei o texto, a questão aqui é sobre reconhecimento. Foi bom enquanto durou. Tudo acaba, até as estrelas vão explodir um dia. Só que disso vai surgir algo novo. De um defunto renovado para uma defunta distante, fique bem. Seja feliz, permita-se ser feliz. Você não precisa viver na sombra do nosso relacionamento nem se sentir culpada por nada. Se você me traiu ou não, isso não importa. Eu a amo desde o momento em que vi seus olhos do tamanho da lua pela primeira vez e vou continuar te amando até a hora que partir dessa para outra. Se você me traiu, ótimo, eu merecia ser traído. Afinal de contas, você era boa demais para um moleque atrevido como eu era. Fique bem. Lembre-se: “a verdade vos libertará”. Abraços. Shiví be-shalôm Elohím

C. H. Barbosa - E a verdade vos libertará ou um ensaio sobre o ciúme

 

Fuck!

     It is curious that my obsession with you does not pass. Perhaps it is a deeply wounded pride, the pride of never having accepted the end of our relationship. While you breathe the clear, fresh air of freedom, I have not been able to breathe properly for years. Pride? Perhaps. Even so, I sense a great fear in you. I have said this before, but it bears repeating. Repression can be a powerful form of denial—a cowardly way of refusing to face what we once loved so much. I no longer search for explanations; for a long time I tried, in vain, to analyze your psychology. You are no longer the same person, and neither am I. This is the only poor yet viable explanation I can find: repression. Fear. What other motive could make you so determined not to speak to me under any circumstances? It is as if I had inflicted irreparable harm on your life, as if I had taken a loved one from you, or abused you in some way that would make reconciliation impossible. I feel like one of those outcasts, a criminal who, after serving a long sentence, tries to apologize to the family only to be met with withering contempt.

    What is the explanation? It scarcely matters; I already have it. Human beings are illogical creatures, driven by contradictions, hypocrisies, fears, and passions. It would be useless to look for sense in all this, and I believe that was what drove me mad some years ago. Yes, it was very sad and painful—it still is—but today I have learned to live with the restless shadows that come to torment me from time to time, as at this very moment while I write these lines.

    Ghosts of the past, demons, spirits—call them what you will—something haunts me and will not let me forget you. Is it madness? Weakness on my part? And if I am weak, does that make you strong? If so, you would be the queen of the purest cruelty and coldness. As I wrote in earlier texts, it would have been better never to have met you. Then, perhaps, I might still have a chance of meeting you. After the relationship ended, I became a complete pariah—useless, senseless—a creature brimming with emotion and too immature to accept what others accept so easily, even becoming friends with ex-girlfriends for life. I never managed that with anyone else, by my own choice. In your case, it was you who chose. And however much I try not to hate you, I cannot; the same force that once propelled the love I had for you now drives my hatred. 

    My fuel in life is refusing to accept your silence, and I have lied for years, trying to manipulate you, to persuade you by the crudest and most insincere means of this inescapable fact: I hate you, Karina! What kind of creature can be so cowardly and cold as to the point of morally erasing someone else for so many years and still go on walking, living, loving… what a mad world this is. If you think I am insane, I think you are too—only with a different strain of madness, that’s all. I am psychotic and you are neurotic—no offense intended. Yes, I hate you from the depths of my soul, and that, too, is love; how deranged all this must sound. Why have I not forgotten you? Why have I been unable to love anyone else? You do not care. To hell with everything that belongs to my world and my small, boyish feelings. You are the mistress of reason, the queen of ice castles, the cold wind and the heedless storm, the everlasting contempt—an illusion of all that once was.

I must have erred—yes, made many mistakes—but unforgivable ones? Is immaturity the only excuse you have for our not speaking? Are you afraid I will return to the subject and then tell me it hurts you? Hurts what? Do you even have a heart? I know Aquarius is said to be a cold sign, but this cold? I keep asking myself what I would do in your place, and mind you, I can be quite wretched and frigid when I choose. After—what?—fifteen years? You are a grown woman, and I am an old man with gray hair; what on earth created this barrier between you and me? Are you afraid I might harm you? Even from a distance? Your silence never convinced me; I was the foolish one. But age brings a few benefits, and one of them is knowing right from wrong. What you have done all these years is wrong. There is no rational justification, for we are speaking of emotions. You will surely find one justification—or many—for this situation, and each will serve to keep you inert, immovable, resolute, as if not speaking to me for the rest of this life were your eternal war for honor. For the honor of indulging your narcissistic impulses, perhaps; for your pride—for there is no moral, spiritual, legal, or personal explanation that accounts for it.

If it had been fifteen days, my childishness would be forgiven—and your silence as well. But fifteen years? Fifteen years! My God, that is the whole life of a young adolescent. What have we produced in all this time? Emptiness. Solitude. Doubt. Pride. Hatred. Contempt. These are our children, now grown and entering their rebellious phase. Soon enough they will turn eighteen—still angry, but a little more lucid. I wonder if, twenty years from now, some enlightened spirit will touch you so that you tell me the reason for this silence that has cut me inside like a sharp, poisoned razor all these days. I remember you with tenderness, as an illusion, as someone who died and will not return; that Karina is gone, and I will never see her again. So be it. I accept that—but I will not accept this mortifying silence for a second more.

     Go on as you wish, but I am certain that something in this wounds you. Something troubles you every day, and you will have to live with it if your decision is firm and indelible: either that you are incapable of forgiving, or that you cannot admit you are afraid you might come to like me again and, confused as well, are afraid of suffering as in the past. Yes, I am jealous; I think I am a little better now, but at the time I had no understanding of that feeling. Today I think I understand a thing or two about jealousy, and I promise nothing—only that I have learned something. I have learned that I ought not to love. Why take the risk? To live with the image of a ghost wandering through my mind and spirit, knowing I will never see her again? What sense is there in that? None; life has no logic, just as neither you nor I do. The things we study are full of logic, and that addicted me to searching for meaning in your actions. But I am tired of lies, tired of contempt, tired of going mad alone and suffering. I am human, for heaven’s sake. I have flesh and bone just like you, and one day I will die—just like you. What, exactly, will we take with us? Our pride, certainly, we will not. Enough. I have said more than I should. Sometimes I feel alone, and solitude, though a great friend, does not embrace me, does not kiss me, says nothing. So I speak to myself, because when I seek the opinion of a wiser person, I end up finding myself. You do not care, and before I fall into the sameness of those hideous sertanejo songs, your indifference is killing me de plus en plus. If that makes you happy, continue. The most absurd thing is to think that, for some sadistic reason beyond my understanding, you keep reading this blog—perhaps even shedding tears. But your decision is more “sublime”: why take risks with a madman, a forty-three-year-old smoker? No—better to keep to yourself; it will be better for you and for me. You are a woman of certainty—certain of everything you do. Keep it that way, and to hell with my small feelings.

C. H. Barbosa — an author weary of so many lies.

For Her Eyes Alone

 

To the care of the honour’d Lady K

I do pen this epistle to enquire whether thou art in good health. Yea, and more than this, to wish thee to be found in the keeping of the Lord Most High, who forsaketh neither the weary nor the broken in spirit. There is no might, nor puissance, in this world or without, that surpasseth the hand of God.

First and foremost, I give laud unto the Most High, that I am here present and granted the grace to inscribe this humble missive unto thee.

This is no letter of petitions, nor yet a scroll of longing, nor a cry of eternal repentance. Verily, my sole intent is to wish unto thee all that is goodly and best beneath the firmament. And mayest thou know, gentle lady, that all flesh is tempted, and days of ill-fortune do beset us — days wherein heaviness doth possess our souls, and we are sorely moved to renounce all.

Without falling into overlong digressions nor vain and idle reveries, I would confess that I was visited by a dream of thee in the night just past. In that vision, methought I gazed upon the looking-glass wherein thy likeness was cast, and beheld thee as thou wast in the springtide of thy youth.

It was not thy present self I did behold — no, not as thou art this day, a lady grown and seasoned — but as a maiden yet untempered by the burden of years. And yet, of a truth, even then the seeds were sown of the woman thou hast become: disciplined, steadfast, resolved, long-suffering, and full of quiet strength.

Nevertheless, there was that in thy tresses — long and flowing — and in the keenness of thine eyes, some fire, some glister of thine inner flame, which I dare not venture to render here in words, lest I be taken for sentimental or accused of seeking to reclaim what time hath rightfully borne away.

This dream didst rouse me at early light, and moved me to pen this plain and humble missive; for many a year had passed since last I dreamt of thee, and the vision left me full of disquiet. Upon waking, I didst kneel in prayer unto our Lord, beseeching Him with an earnest heart that He keep thee in His tender charge, for thou art worthy — aye, ever wert thou so.

The dream was cast in hues most vivid, a lively phantasm wherein thy younger semblance shone forth in cheerful mirth, discoursing sweetly with me. I felt the hum of thy speech, the soft enrapturement of nearness, yea, even the subtle fragrance that clung to thee. We spake, as once we did in those bygone days when naught could sever our kindred souls.

Think not this vision to be of base or lewd kind, filled with fleshly fire. Nay, it was replete with that which is most true, most honest, and most chaste betwixt two who once didst love with the fullness of their beings, yet were by life and lot riven asunder.

Now can I say, with no feigned tongue, that I have gleaned some small wisdom in the course of my years; I have come into the season of ripeness, and stand — by the grace of our Lord — upon the earth with both feet fixed and steadfast.

I dare not trespass upon that tender dominion of the heart which is no longer mine to enter. And yet, at last, I comprehend why thou didst will never to hear word nor whisper from me again. It is bitter truth that I am a creature perilous — cunning in charm and skilled in artful guile. Perchance the sole means thou didst find to master such a snare was by way of utter forsaking and resolute disdain.

These forces thou didst wield against me — silence and abandonment — did teach me lessons which neither sermon nor sorrow had ever wrought in me before. Yea, virtues I once knew not now do inhabit me, having been sown by thy hard but holy hand.

In all truthfulness, I would make unto thee a brief confession of my poor and wayworn affections: that after the lapse of many years, it is but now that I perceive — verily, I feel — that I love thee no longer.

Yet I still do wish thee all manner of goodness, that thy days be clad in joy and thy countenance resplendent, and that the Lord’s hand abide ever upon thee, for I do ken thou hast endured, and still endurest, a multitude of afflictions both of flesh and of soul.

What I would fain signify, and pray thee to comprehend, is that my love no longer beareth the stamp of that selfish mould it once wore — that fevered and tepid lust which sought, with vainglorious word, to win thee back. That is not the tenor of my purpose, nor do I seek such ends; of this I do solemnly assure thee.

This was the stirring that led me to rise early and commit this poor epistle to thy name: the dream that visited me, the wakened echoes of yore — those disquieted phantoms that return to haunt me with thy absence. But such hauntings hold no dominion now, for I have been drawn forth from the mire.

I was found by a servant of the Order of Melchizedek; I did partake of the cup and break bread, and therein was I made whole. And now, in spirit and in truth, I do both know and feel what true love is.

True love is a benevolence that seeketh not its own, that presseth not, nor cozeneth, nor harmeth the beloved. True love giveth place, yea, yieldeth all — even unto life itself — that the other might be preserved. In such estate stand I now.

Thou mayest, perchance, find thyself pondering why this epistle was cast in such archaic tongue. 'Tis for this cause: that it may reach thee and thee alone. I wot well there be prying eyes that linger yet upon these words, and likewise do I know such eyes to be indulgent and lewd of spirit; wherefore I trust they shall not squander their idle hours poring o’er lexicons to unearth the meaning hid herein.

I did say I would refrain from vain fancies; yet, the tide of feeling within me is so great, that I must needs render it — howbeit poorly — into thought. Lo, near fifteen years hath passed in wandering since our bond was sundered, and still, I find much cause to offer thee thanks. For thou, my lady, art a pattern of fortitude and grace; and this I speak not in flattery, nor with intent to beguile thee.

Some spirit or turn of fate didst bring thy memory to me again. Mayhap it was the treatise of Master Georg Lukács, entitled To Narrate or To Describe, wherein he draweth comparison betwixt a race of steeds in Zola's Nana, and another in Anna Karenina of Count Tolstoy. Or perchance it was my reading of Arabian Nights, that wondrous tome so filled with mirth and instruction — a text we should doubtless have shared, with many a jest and merry comment, had our friendship endured.

Aye, how I would rejoice to partake of such literary delight with thee once more. For of all the riches our fellowship did offer, this was the jewel most dear unto me.

Thou wast far more than my warm and sensual beloved. Thou wast a companion full of breath and spark, ever by my side; thou sharedst in my fervour for letters, didst bear with my unrest, and didst even suffer my youthful folly. Thou wast as the sister I never had — and after thee, I could love no other.

Yet methinks this part of the tale is already known to thee.

I could neither love nor be loved by any other — until this present hour. Lo, I now find my heart stirred anew, awakened by tender stirrings toward a maiden who walketh with me in our studies. Aye, my dear lady, I am not one to surrender lightly. Though life hath been a tempest of contradiction and trial, I did not forsake my path of learning, for therein alone do I find my calling.

In some strange way, I believe this steadfastness is but the echo of thy own resilience and discipline, taught unto me long ago, in a world now distant — when we did pace together through the colonnades and dwellings of our university days. Thou hast taught me much; but above all, this lesson endureth: that of constancy and fortitude. And for this, I do give thanks without ceasing, blessing thee with each breath beneath this sun.

As I spake afore, noble lady, I have conceived an affection for this maiden — young, fair, and wise in speech — and methinks she too may harbour some fondness toward me. Yet, as ever it is in my life, ease is not my portion. Love cometh not clad in comfort nor veiled in privilege. Nay, this fair one hath a betrothed.

And such as I am now — shaped by years and chastened by time — I cannot, I dare not, pursue her with artifice or sly attempt. I honour her bond, and thus I hold this love as a secret thing, a treasure buried deep, kept under key within my breast — the rarest trove that one might unearth.

Prudence, reverence, forbearance, and fidelity — these be not idle utterings upon my tongue. By the full grace of Our Lord, I have striven to embody such truths, not in word alone but in deed — humble deeds, too small for men to mark, yet alive and burning within the marrow of my soul, diffusing through the chambers of my heart.

I pray that thou art well. I pray thy body is nourished and thy sleep sweet; that the smile which once did ravish my gaze remaineth still upon thy visage. That thy laughter, which did once make others laugh, endureth still, despite the briars strewn across our daily path. May thy health be abundant, thy courage yet greater, thy spirit unwearied.

And know this: I do yet love thee. Not as that boy, green with want and blind in passion, but as a man who hath learned to love all men — and above all, to love the Lord. Yea, it is for this reason, for the fear of God and friendship of Christ Jesus, that I write thee now.

Be well, and may Our Lord bless thy every step, thy every breath.

Thine in eternal friendship,

Carlos Henrique Barbosa

La Instruanta Silento

 Dear K,

I do not know if these words will ever reach you, and perhaps that is for the best. Yet, here I am once more, compelled by some unseen force to write on this day, as I have every year since we parted ways. It has become a ritual, a habit that lingers despite the passing years, like the lingering scent of old books in a library—unchanged, unwavering. But unlike the past letters, this one is not a plea, nor a lament. It is, instead, a quiet confession and a final acknowledgment of what once was.

It is peculiar how the mind clings to memories, curating a museum of moments, some vivid, some blurred at the edges. I still remember you in your bright-colored All-Star sneakers, the jeans that bore the wear of time, and that Deep Purple shirt—a color between indigo and violet, a shade that perhaps only you could pull off with such casual grace. I see you as the girl who walked with effortless confidence, carrying books in your arms, speaking about words in ways I barely understood. Your passion for language, your devotion to Esperanto, the precision with which you wielded words, it all fascinated me. Se vi perdis la vojon, ne perdu la esperon; eĉ la ombroj servas al la lumo. I wonder if you still recall phrases like these, or if they have faded as I have faded from your life.

I was once both your friend and your lover, but above all, I was a fool. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the unrelenting need to anchor something that was meant to be free—these were my failings. I wounded you not with words, but with the weight of my insecurities, the chains of my own selfish love. And for that, K, I am sorry. No apology, however, can erase what was done. No amount of regret can restore what was lost.

I know you have long since turned away, that you no longer read my words, and in truth, that is a mercy. You should not have to carry the weight of my grief or my reminiscence. If I were to be honest, I ceased writing altogether, not only to you but to the world, for I have come to believe that I have no gift beyond causing harm. What talent I thought I had was nothing but an illusion, and in that illusion, I lost you.

Perhaps we have become strangers in all but memory. The boy you once knew and the woman you have become—two beings who no longer recognize each other, shaped by time and distance into something unrecognizable. And yet, despite the chasm between us, despite the silence, I find myself here, repeating these words like an echo from a distant past.

Every year, I have written. Every year, I have surrendered to the urge to speak to you in the only way left to me. But I suspect that I have said all of this before. It is a cycle, a ritual as predictable as the rising sun. And yet, I do not expect an answer, nor do I desire one. The only thing I wish for is your happiness—pure, untainted, and undisturbed by ghosts of the past.

Good memories remain untouched by regret, though they are accompanied by the immutable truth that we cannot rewind time, cannot undo the damage we inflicted. All we can do is carry them, cherish them, and move forward with the knowledge of what was.

If these words ever reach you, may they find you in joy, in health, in a life free from the burdens I once placed upon you. May you be surrounded by kindness, by love that does not bind but liberates.

You once told me that I would find the solution to my problems, and in the last moment we spoke, you gave me nothing but silence. It was the hardest lesson I have ever learned, and yet it was the most necessary. That silence was the greatest teacher I have ever known. Through it, I learned discipline, acceptance, and suffering. Through it, I found my path, and in that path, I found faith.

I still have your green sweater, the one that carries the scent of time and of a past life. And I still have the scarf you made for me, the one you carefully wove with imported wool. These are relics now, fragments of a history that no longer belongs to the present.

Wisdom is a path walked slowly, and under this sun, all suffering has been felt before by others. There is nothing new in pain, nor in regret. There is only the endurance to bear it, and the resilience to continue.

I still listen to those songs, the ones that colored the backdrop of our time together—These Eyes, Come Undone, Burn, Child in Time. And yes, even Nine in the Afternoon and Suddenly I See, though I imagine you have long since left them behind. Tonight, before I sleep, I will listen to Battery one last time, a song that once intertwined with our kisses in a moment of reckless eternity.

I have not loved another since you, but do not grieve for that. Love, in its truest form, is rare, and for me, it came only once. And that is enough. I no longer search, no longer expect.

I was never good for you, and I know this now as I did not know then. But now, above all else, I fear the Lord. In Him, I have found the understanding I lacked. He, the Almighty, has shown me that everything has a purpose under this sun, that all things have their time, and ours has long since passed. My greatest sin was loving you more than I loved Him, and for that, I have repented. We all have our own journey, our own story to tell, and mine will be one of faith and redemption.

So thank you, K. Thank you for existing, for being the brightest star in a part of my life that once felt endless. Thank you for what you taught me, not only when we were together, but more so in the silence that followed. In that silence, I found understanding, and in that understanding, I found my path.

Your silence must be honored, for it has been the greatest lesson of my life. And so, I write these words not to you, but to the wind, to the void, to the echoes of a time long past.

Be well, be happy, be at peace.

With nothing but respect and silent gratitude;

C. H. Barbosa

Hi

 I'm not sure if you are going to 32 or 33, but it doesn't matter at all: what it matters is that you are glad. Good. Healthy. Fine. Working on and hard. You are a fire my respectable friend. My despise and my reason of life. 

Well, congratulations, I wish you all the best and more because you deserve. You made me happy for the rest of my life and your memory gives me strength to keep on fighting.

Today is a special day for you and for me. I'm not sure if you are celebrating your birthday on the day 23, 24 or 25, not sure about South Korea. 

But I know that you were born in Brazil on January 24th. 

Every minute and year that passes I'm more confident that you won't talk to me by any means. You are probably not even reading this content for a long time. 

But those who hate me are eagerly reading it. It's a shame because they envy what I feel about you. They will never get out so complicated relationship: a past relation of love and a current relation of despise.

You might call me selfish, for I am, in fact a selfish one. But I think that the main reason to not talk to me all of those years is because you don't wanna take any chances. 

So it's better to eliminate the threat. Kill it in cold blood and bury it into the ground and bosom of our heart. Deep into our minds and souls. 

This is about me. A selfish person that cannot allow oneself to forget and alleviate this malady.

Wish you are good. I godamn really wish it. 

Hugs. See you in my dreams. 

Volver a los diecisiete (Mercedes Sosa)

 Volver a los diecisiete

Después de vivir un siglo

Es como descifrar signos

Sin ser sabio competente

Volver a ser de repente

Tan frágil como un segundo

Volver a sentir profundo

Como un niño frente a Dios

Eso es lo que siento yo

En este instante fecundo

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

Mi paso retrocedido

Cuando el de ustedes avanza

El arco de las alianzas

Ha penetrado en mi nido

Con todo su colorido

Se ha paseado por mis venas

Y hasta las duras cadenas

Con que nos ata el destino

Es como un diamante fino

Que alumbra mi alma serena

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

Lo que puede el sentimiento

No lo ha podido el saber

Ni el más claro proceder

Ni el más ancho pensamiento

Todo lo cambia el momento

Cual mago condescendiente

Nos aleja dulcemente

De rencores y violencias

Solo el amor con su ciencia

Nos vuelve tan inocentes

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

El amor es torbellino

De pureza original

Hasta el feroz animal

Susurra su dulce trino

Detiene a los peregrinos

Libera a los prisioneros

El amor con sus esmeros

Al viejo lo vuelve niño

Y al malo solo el cariño

Lo vuelve puro y sincero

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

De par en par en la ventana

Se abrió como por encanto

Entró el amor con su manto

Como una tibia mañana

Al son de su bella Diana

Hizo brotar el jazmín

Volando cual serafín

Al cielo le puso aretes

Y mis años en diecisiete

Los convirtió el querubín

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krEMw8E5ZAg