sábado, 30 de junho de 2012

MURMÚRIOS DE LISBOA CVII

The Vampire & the Werewolf - Part IV

She is divided. She feels she will be, eternally. If she actually had to decide, she would not know which one to choose, for sure. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on one's 


point of view, she does not have to decide anything. Both know she exists, but both pretend not to see her.
The vampire is a mature man, wise and inteligent, who knows exactly what to do in each situation. But sometimes she wonders if he has fears, like most of us, or at least concerns. His hands were trembling when he presented the conference, something that surprised her. She thought he was protected against such petty little human emotions.
The werewolf is a horny young man who looks at her from the top of the street as if he intends to devour her. Yet he sweeps the floor in front of the garage every other day and pretends not to look at her when she leaves the building. Too close for comfort, she guesses.
Are they both as afraid as she is? What does she mean to each of them, if anything?
For once in her life she whishes something would happen at the other end of the rope. Why does the dreamer need always be her? Why does she have to be the one wondering what it would be like if she wrote the werewolf a poem and left it glued to the garage's door or the mirror of his red bike? Why does she have to be the one wondering what life would be like if shared with an unnatainable vampire?
She's tired. They should be the ones going after her. Trying something. Anything.
Love demands courage. And when you are afraid does it necessarily mean you love? They both tickle her heart and they both leave her breathless in totally different ways.
The vampire has the power to awe her when she least expects it or when she's positively sure that he despises her, like when he held her hand and wished her luck for the presentation. Sometimes she's certain he even hates her or that he couldn't care less if he saw her dying in some alley. She wants to scream at him Tennessee Williams' words, but she keeps recollecting what he said about Brando and the irony in his voice when he said he would love to have shared the world with the gentleman. In those moments she pities him intensely. He is a cynical. Nothing touches him. But sometimes she wonders if that is because everything touches him deeply.
The werewolf reminds her every single day she sees him that she is in love. The simple presence of himself is enough. Her body feels a misterious attraction every time she passes him, pulling her to his side. She's almost sure he is an imature and reckless soul, who could not discern the intricate laces of love even in his own heart.
And then she remembers some wise knowledge bottled up inside her soul. No one told her this, but she knows for a fact that it's the right thing to do - never interfere with the ways of the universe. It will find a way of reajusting itself and herself to it. Or, more plainly, if it's not meant to be, it should not be forced to happen.
She wont bother anymore. It's a waste of time, anyway.

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