Dead Man Walking
One day after another endless day. And every day is the same as the one before and to know the next day will be exactly the same as today. No hope. No hope at all. To lose hope is the worst thing in the world. I have lost all hope. I don't believe in anything anymore. What do I do now? I wait for death. But death is still a long, long way, a long, long time ahead. I stopped trying to pretend. I don't care anymore if people see. Can they see? Sometimes I wonder. Would they know? If I was on my way to death. If I was on my final walk to meet death. Would anyone know? Would they recognize the dead man walking in front of their eyes? Is there a face of death? Or are suicidals like criminals? Faceless. And if suicidals had the face of death carved on them, would people reach out to comfort them or would they run away, scarred, lest it might be contagious? Is death contagious? Would it leave a scar on you for life? But I wouldn’t know. I am just a dead man walking his final walk of life. My death will leave a scar on the world. But will anyone see the scar I left?
Inspirado por "The Bridge"
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1 comentário:
Sempre gostei de pontes. Sempre me seduziram. Me tocaram. Têm um brilho mágico, invisível, as pontes. Uma aura de energia. Um nevoeiro que chama do alto. Uma espécie de olhar que reflecte no mar e volta ao encontro do nosso olhar. Uma ponte é sempre uma passagem. Um local incerto, sem morada, riscado do mapa. Um percurso. Uma viagem. Um pedaço de futuro à nossa espera. Entre o céu e o mar. Daí, talvez sempre as associar mais à vida que à morte. A ponte é uma passagem para outras margens não para a outra margem.
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