Hayley Westenra - Pokarekare Ana

]...[ shadows and dust ]...[

Live as adventurous as prudently!

There are those moments in live that choice cannot be chosen! What must be lies under, waiting… watching… hearing… learning!… The foreseeable future of a choice unchosen is as real as the actions that have been chosen. The ways that we take landed us to a goal, but the unchosen path will always take us to unexplored regions and to unknown situations.

Freedom is the reflection of the choice that’s unchosen. There is no escape what so ever. We can imagine situations, we can remember feelings, we can reconstruct in the mind images from a distant past, the actual present or from a near future, but the bonds that connect them all are so unpredictable and random that only by the effort of reason or hope we can see a time continuous line crossing them all. Even so, it’s not that that rule us all.

The unchosen choice is a shadow above and all around us as we are the dust that feed her. And how heavy is to carry out and how painful to bear within. Although this reality came known by several peoples and clearly experienced by them, just a few relied, day after day, connect to her, not by choice or election, not by destine or necessity, but because they are forever more the unchosen! And those are rare beings of light, beings of shadows and dust, here and there of the unchosen.

In hard times and desperate situations, in unthinkable conditions and dead ends, at the bridge of the end they appear – coming from nowhere within everywhere… dead like me… – silently give us a hand, pulling us from the shadows and showing us the dust within. But whom they might be? They aren’t dead like my, they are deadlier than me, drifting underneath existence and arising above her, looking back and forth from a suspended horizon: whom they might be, have I asked?! They are my history and my story – before and after me –, the gaps that I cannot speak, the silence that I’ve shut down, the gesture that I’ve never made… they bring out all the things I’ve never made and all those I will make: I look at them and it’s the impossible of me that I perceive, I look again and it’s the possible of me that I see.

Shadows and dust – that’s their live and mine condition.

Where not is – dying to become

We walk with hurry through the streets in to the buildings, in to the cars, in to the tube, on the site walks... We are never satisfied where we are, because where we are, we are not; where we are its just – and it will always be – a place to be. We need what we don’t have and those who have what they want, are still seeking, looking around, wandering in wonder if, if it’s there an if that can become an is. How can it be possible? Is there any logic – if logic is there – in seeking for something that is unknown? Are there any things in your known feelings that can connect with that “something”? And even so – if there is –, when and if we get it, how can we know that we get it, if we don’t know it?

[How can I reach you if we cannot talk to each other, and even though we could, it’s unspeakable the ways of disagreements and misunderstandings that we come up with – we unbury your souls, with an unspeakable pleasure, just to bruise one another –? The time we lose just to get by the opened bruises – you said once that my eyes were the sunset horizon and I believed you and I told you that we were forever, we told each other that always and forever where the ties that bind us… – was not enough to overlay the silence growing up between us. Time as passed by and we become arid deserts, two monsters powerlessness facing our loneliness of being as we were: when did we start living dead in life time? When did my words become daggers leaded to you? When did you become that hard and cold wall of carelessness? When we lost courage of truth and believe of honesty, there was where we start deceasing – and how truly easy was the bend of our hard slip].

Lifelong Tales

Getting ] to the bottom [ old

Getting old only has meaning if we can stay old and never dies, but everybody deserves a death: one’s death.

This is small riddle that is told, if I may say so, in the North, there where the North ends, and where place exists in which the big seas met.

A certain day, a boy was playing along the beach – in the place where the seas met –, making holes in the sand, and trying to fill them up with the water of the seas. Nearby was passing a knight that stayed astonish with what the boy was doing. Addressing to him, he said: «What do you think you are doing? Do you expect to fill up that hole with all the water of the seas?» The boy looked at him and said: «I don’t expect anything; I just throw water in to the hole, without care if the hole has a bottom or if is bottomless.» Without understanding a word or trying to, the knights speed up asking: «Do you think I that there is bottom – in this place where the seas met – so I can cross to the other edge?» «Of course – said the boy –, silly of you, the seas have bottom». The knight start to cross the place where the seas met and seeing that was sinking said to the boy: «You told me that the seas had bottom so I can cross them! And now I’m sinking!» The boy rapidly agues: «And they have, you just didn’t get there yet».

The bottom – getting old – will be always and forever more a «you just didn’t get there yet».

Livelong Tales

The Bridge

of

Wantage

This is a remote story, a never end tale that have been told from generation to generation – from father to son, from mother to daughter and passed forward from siblings to siblings – as far as memory can reach and remember. It had been so, that the story was become a riddle

“Once upon a time, before the age of men, in the South lands of Pangea, there was a bridge. And how wonderful and impotents she was: arising from the abysses of darkness, she was strong against the shadows of the night and faithful with the light walkers that cross here full of hope. This was the bridge daughter of the goddess Pangea.

But there were days of fog, a fog so dense and so squashed that no living soul could see the other side of the edge. The bridge started to wonder if in reality there was another edge, in the edge of here, when the fog was being all around here: «If I cannot see you, are you still there? If my eyes cannot rest upon your image and draw the outlines of what you are, are you still? How can you be a part of me, being differently?». With time, no living soul had the courage to cross the bridge as she become as insecure as instable and all here structure tremble upon the most light breeze. The beginning of the end as become. Although the bridge is yet remembered, she doesn’t exist no more: the mother Pangea saw, powerlessness, her daughter braking a part – piece by piece, a moment following another moment, day by day, through long months and years – and fall down deep in the shadows of darkness – and the mother that survived the daughter’s death still lives and will live forever, forever unfruitful until the daughter can rise again (when we cannot survive the questions that we brought out, it’s us in the end that’s brought down). There are those – special ones, rare men’s and women’s with a soul-light – that, in fogy days, can yet hear, in the silence, the tears of the mother as the tremendous fall of the daughter happen: when you hear them, be awarded with the questions that you brought out”.

To all of you that had listened to this strange story at your bed time or near to the fireplace in a rainy days, be advised of this riddle: the goal of a bridge is to be a crossing point, but the bridge itself will never be able to cross himself – to do it so, one must be able to see and be beyond of what there is.

Myself Requiem

Time as come where powerlessness as arise upon and all around me, and I wonder, wandering, if there is mystery in the emptiness, if there is something in all we can’t remember no more, if in the power of forgetting, power goes on.

Screaming can’t solve anything anymore and the tears are fooling again and again; I must say that I was blessed to have meet and sit with all of you; to have enjoyed our companionship in the fulfillment of my hands.

Eternity that was before come to pass as a picture in my head, as a thought thinking itself over and over again, back and forward, and turning around to the beginning that’s the end.

Moving around,
Waiting just about,
Going away as fresh as to be:

I’m here just for now, but not for long here long it’s just a corner where I first saw myself.

What should I be when I’m not being? What can I wait, when place there is not? Who I’m I supposed in whom? Although weirdness as become a place in the horizon, I must go forward and seek out new ways of being. Stronger than strongest that’s what I should be, hoping beyond hopeless.

The screech is emerging in the horizon of my eyes: let me go, I must be where my death it’s not.

Trying off,
Make not,
Don’t turn around, it’s too late: the requiem as began.

Steady! Look firmly ahead whiteout fear of what is coming.

Hino para ti que vens

O teu horizonte foi a ponte das minhas lágrimas de além-mar.

Vem, não demores, vem!

Ecoaste tão fundo na minha alma que ela ficou a desconhecer-se e escreveu a tua presença numa lágrima de futuro, de sangue do meu sangue, de eternidade feita carne, de realidade onde a seara tinha sido fronteira de vazio.

Vem, demora o tempo que tiver que ser, vem!

Estou aqui, sempre aqui estarei, para sempre é o que sou para ti, na dimensão astronomicamente maior que possa haver do sempre – sinto-te tão fundo que não sei se minh’alma se tua, se dois ou um... – e onde estás sendo o excesso, o maior que me verá, sentido, carcomido e enrugado, na ponte do fim!

Vem!

No teu vir está a minha despedida, o meu alcançar, o repouso da minha carne amortalhada, por um sorriso teu de olhos brilhantes de mim.

Vê fundo, tanto quanto vi e vê além, sente tudo quando senti e sente por demais, tenta tudo o que tentei e alcança, vive tudo o que vivi e serás tu, tu tal como vens para dizer “sim”, que aqui estás e és tu, sem máscaras nem disfarces: que vens!