clarice falcão

Então isso era a felicidade. De início se sentiu vazia. Depois seus olhos ficaram úmidos: era felicidade, mas como sou mortal, como o amor pelo mundo me transcende. O amor pela vida mortal a assassinava docemente, aos poucos. E o que é que eu faço? Que faço da felicidade? Que faço dessa paz estranha e aguda, que já está começando a me doer como uma angústia, como um grande silêncio de espaços? A quem dou minha felicidade, que já está começando a me rasgar um pouco e me assusta. Não, não quero ser feliz. Prefiro a mediocridade. Ah, milhares de pessoas não têm coragem de pelo menos prolongar-se um pouco mais nessa coisa desconhecida que é sentir-se feliz e preferem a mediocridade.
—  Clarice Lispector, Uma Aprendizagem ou O Livro dos Prazeres (1969)

I met him on a restaurant on a spring day. This may sound romantic if you imagine a fancy restaurant with cole porter playing in the background on a rooftop in New York. But this restaurant wasn’t on a rooftop and neither in New York. All you could hear was the loud music playing on the pub next door. He worked there. My friend worked there. I didn’t work there but I had a friends meeting there. He was there. Working. I could never forget: I ordered chicken wrapped in Parma ham, and it was delicious.

When the waiters were leaving the kitchen he was entering. When they were carrying trays he was day dreaming and bumping into everyone. His eyes, always big and blue, made it clear he didn’t have a clue about what he was doing. It was love at first sight. For me only, I guess.

We spent some nights chatting on Orkut, listening to The Fray and Coldplay. From there we moved to Messenger. And then to WhatsApp.

We started dating when he was 20 and I was 18, but it seemed like we were just starting our life. We saw all the series. Some of it a lot of times. Made all the risoto recipes we could find. Burned a few pots cause the conversation was good. Bought furniture without thinking if they’d pass trough the door. We wrote plays, movies, music, together. Made a dozen new friends and with that our YouTube channel. It was over 100 videos, just the two of us -just counted. Suffered from the hatters, laughed with the shippers. Travelled the world sharing a earphone. From my ten favourite songs, seven he showed me. The other 3 he wrote. Learned about feminism and sexualities, gas lighting, mansplaning and other words my computer doesn’t  recognise cause it wasn’t lucky enough to be married to him.

One day we broke up. It wasn’t easy. We cried more than in the end of “how I met your mother”. More than in the beginning of “Up”. Until today there’s nowhere that I go that people don’t say, in some way: where is he? It seems that, forever, I’ll always miss him. If at least we had had a kid together, I think. I could carry him with me.

This week, for the first time, I saw the movie we made together -not randomly a love story. I thought I’d cry all over again. But what I got was this happiness of having lived the greatest love of my life. And that we documented this love on a film -and so many videos, musics and chronicles. I feel nothing.


AU: Harry Styles, actor and writer, writes for The New York Times about the love of his life and ex-spouse, actor, singer and writer, Louis Tomlinson.

Eu não acho que seja possível preencher um espaço vazio com aquilo que você perdeu. Não acho que nossos pedaços perdidos caibam mais dentro da gente depois que eles se perdem. Agora foi a minha ficha que caiu: se de alguma forma a tivesse de volta, ela não encheria o buraco que a perda dela deixou.
—  O Teorema Katherine
Amor é quando é concedido participar um pouco mais. Poucos querem o amor, porque o amor é a grande desilusão de tudo o mais. E poucos suportam perder todas as outras ilusões. Há os que voluntariam para o amor, pensando que o amor enriquecerá a vida pessoal. É o contrário: amor é finalmente a pobreza. Amor é não ter. Inclusive amor é a desilusão do que se pensava que era amor. E não é prêmio, por isso não envaidece, amor não é prêmio, é uma condição concedida exclusivamente para aqueles que, sem ele, corromperiam o ovo com a dor pessoal. Isso não faz do amor uma exceção honrosa; ele é exatamente concedido aos maus agentes, àqueles que atrapalhariam tudo se não lhes fosse permitido adivinhar vagamente.
—  Clarice Lispector