Palette

The writers, as the painters, have their own palette. A certain set of words, intertwined, mingled and woven in a fabric of thoughts on paper, creating different tones, and different rhythms according to the combination proposed. Exactly like colors. They use several others, obviously, but those basics, primaries, are always there, creating an identity, a familiarity of sound with inexplicable life by itself.
But, overcoming themselves sometimes, they digress and use different words, like different tones, and inaugurate a new phase of their writing. They write with someone else’s words, which, in turn, become theirs for life. In these occasions, a new phase starts. Their Blue phase. Their Abstract phase.
Writers, as painters, start with a blank page, a white canvas in front of them. The words start running with precision, creating images, sounds, sensations, a copy of reality. Sometimes, a mixture of colors, emotions, confusion and darkness, creating an abstraction of humans’ feelings. Exactly as painting.
Sometimes, as the painters, the writers make mistakes, and get carried on with their hands, putting too much color, or lack of, in one point or another. Also as the painters, writers, sometimes, dislike what their work, don’t consider them good enough, even though all the familiar colors and techniques are there.
That’s when they are surprised by someone else’s preferences, and realize human beings are diverse. Exactly as the painters.

Veja o Senado que tens...

Vai lá e vota neles... Você vem dizendo, em protestos e demonstrações, que está insatisfeito com aquela mutreta toda e veja o que fazem: ignoram suas preferências, quando são pagos para defendê-las.


http://oglobo.globo.com/pais/mat/2009/08/19/conselho-de-etica-do-senado-rejeita-reabertura-de-acoes-contra-sarney-757471103.asp

NÃO RELEJA NINGUÉM!!!!!

Silence, all right.

Monday, dreaded. Where is my life?, I must ask.

Because I can't see much purpose, or better, reasoning in all that.

If my accent is the main trace that will be the parameter used to judge me, I better off be silent and accept whatever comes. The problem is that it is impossible for me.

With all this life pulsing, and pushing inside, being silent is unbearable.

I mean the silence that kills a person, the silence of ideas, of reason, of culture, or constant learning. The forced silence.

The silence of being is what kills, not the unuseful verborragic senseless words I used to say.

We all used to say at one point or another.

If someone could tell me how to stop my brain, maybe I could accept this quietly; but silence is demanded without shutting me off. Forget it.