a prose poem By Wagner Hertzog
In those days I remember never stopped raining. It never stopped raining. Never. And the shadows of the clouds always sick stood at the breathtaking conferences of my awkward soul. Every day I was depressed. I was expecting ambivalent and proficient shadows of agony outside while it was raining, and when everyone left, I was exhaustively ignored. Even when I was alone, in the imponderable solitude of my mediocrity, all that exasperating melancholy radiated the immensity of my inner fractures. I did not want to feel the eternal night of my distressing whining.
Every day they were equally destructive, and never resulted in anything good. Every day was equally destructive, and I longed for the destruction of my restlessness. Every day I stayed there, and they began to consider me a man with no direction, an unoccupied man. According to my subversive inner perspective, as well as my weak condition at night, I saw myself in a much more "heroic" way, so to speak, an ambivalent, reserved and taciturn man; but for them, for all of them, I was just an unoccupied man. A plain unoccupied pale figure, unemployed and broke. In a matter of a few days, my opinion about myself began to become more and more like theirs, and soon I was contaminated with the fetid and repulsive realistic exoneration of my own mediocrity. The days were sad, the streets were awfully dark. I had to pray, to beg God’s help for consolation. As a gift rewarded by my solitary vicissitudes, I remembered the afternoons of distant times, in which I strolled in the spring of my dreams under the avenues and yellow-leafed bananas, and began to repeat this same walk and this same route with the purpose of recovering a little of the dreamlike beauty of the days of my happiness, but the fleetingness and futility of such treacherous attempts to be happy (or at least to experience some of the happiness that I thought I once had [supposing that someday I was happy]) only served to leave me more depressed, and all things were so bad that dying seemed the best of alternatives, the best of things.
But seeing empty cities in her majestic eyes have given me real motivations for life, what was the real foundation of my existence, and for what reasons I could make this life worthwhile. But it was all transience on my behalf. The gentleness, slowness, lethargy and opacity of the gray and colorless afternoons, the colorful portrayal of the days, the abysmal commotion of the eternal night of the soul. Everyone was sneaky and everyone wanted to be. It seemed that only the inherent humanity of my goodness guarded any hint of sincerity. I could not have or reveal anything. All things were the fullness of the loss of time. I should die or shut up, but my nostalgia for my solitary lonely nights hid morbid silence, guarded by the foolishness of the days that never were and the days that will never be.
Every day they were equally destructive, and never resulted in anything good. Every day was equally destructive, and I longed for the destruction of my restlessness. Every day I stayed there, and they began to consider me a man with no direction, an unoccupied man. According to my subversive inner perspective, as well as my weak condition at night, I saw myself in a much more "heroic" way, so to speak, an ambivalent, reserved and taciturn man; but for them, for all of them, I was just an unoccupied man. A plain unoccupied pale figure, unemployed and broke. In a matter of a few days, my opinion about myself began to become more and more like theirs, and soon I was contaminated with the fetid and repulsive realistic exoneration of my own mediocrity. The days were sad, the streets were awfully dark. I had to pray, to beg God’s help for consolation. As a gift rewarded by my solitary vicissitudes, I remembered the afternoons of distant times, in which I strolled in the spring of my dreams under the avenues and yellow-leafed bananas, and began to repeat this same walk and this same route with the purpose of recovering a little of the dreamlike beauty of the days of my happiness, but the fleetingness and futility of such treacherous attempts to be happy (or at least to experience some of the happiness that I thought I once had [supposing that someday I was happy]) only served to leave me more depressed, and all things were so bad that dying seemed the best of alternatives, the best of things.
But seeing empty cities in her majestic eyes have given me real motivations for life, what was the real foundation of my existence, and for what reasons I could make this life worthwhile. But it was all transience on my behalf. The gentleness, slowness, lethargy and opacity of the gray and colorless afternoons, the colorful portrayal of the days, the abysmal commotion of the eternal night of the soul. Everyone was sneaky and everyone wanted to be. It seemed that only the inherent humanity of my goodness guarded any hint of sincerity. I could not have or reveal anything. All things were the fullness of the loss of time. I should die or shut up, but my nostalgia for my solitary lonely nights hid morbid silence, guarded by the foolishness of the days that never were and the days that will never be.
