Passion takes days, within our chest, breathing slowly. The passion breathes so slowly that we hardly give her. We live day as if it were not there, clinging to the walls of the heart, attached to every inch of flesh of our body. Glued to us, as if he had hands instead of suction cups, as if he felt peace instead of urgency. We live as if she slept a deep sleep who we are. One day, the passion wakes. Without being expected. Without knowing measure, weigh, interpret and especially counter. The passion wakes up suddenly and burn it in the body like a fireball down to us by the throat. One day, the passion seems urgent acid in our eyes. It seems a dumb silence that screams much louder than any words. And have now as if now was the only. Needs us. You need to breathe through our mouths. Need to run in our legs. You need to play with our fingers, the whole world at once. This world is crazy, dementia, urgency, insanity and uncontrolled. Because passion is also this: madness, insanity, urgency, insanity and uncontrolled. And thats when the passion awakens in us, like a wild animal with bulging eyes and hungry, we realize who we are. It is then that we see behind our look in the mirror, we understand that the heart can really almost explode in our chest, we no longer want to rationalize all the emotions. And we accept that, in fact, we are all a little crazy. This is the point of no return. One that makes it impossible to get back to who we were up there. One that requires us, above all else, to deal with us. And no longer have to lie to ourselves: yes, we are also crazy. Deep, crazy. And whatever we do to try to remedy how crazy we are never able to look at us the same way as own, so innocently, we looked up here. - Laura Azevedo -
Posted on: Fri, 26 Dec 2014 17:44:37 +0000
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