Reflexes are not more than – Um estudo em inglês

Você pode conferir aqui a tradução deste texto. Antes de lê-lo, me perdoe: não é objetivo criar um vácuo aos diversos leitores deste espaço que, como eu, têm a infeliz condição de serem monoglotas. Mas sou esforçado, estou tentanto e logo terei na língua inglesa minha mais atual ferramenta de criação e leitura. Good read!

sad condition...

And to think that so long has it been since those cold days of winter, we live together. When we listen to each other acalentávamos Watermark on the small CD player while calling upon our most bizarre dreams. Think how nice it was to feel so, like children, acting irresponsibly on life, living the dream of imaginary voyages to distant places, where old mysteries challenged our chimeras.
Think we’ve chosen each week, where we could build beautiful worlds together and form a loose mock of life, its limitations, its conventions. To think we laughed so much that, weary and introspective, thinking we laid in the fragility of all human beings, in an attempt to pander a bit of our space to the other, in fact look into there eyes and see the answer to everything you asked …

Think that in a few minutes we toured foreign lands, marked by signs that defy the times and men, once visited by loved legacy of fabrication or not we want to believe or deny. And to think that the pact to be forever faithful to our ideals, our own revolution finally ended up dying, like a flower, then to radiate beauty and mystery has withered and lost. And to think that one day we would be not so free, but simply … adults.

And who would think that our hedonistic way of life lost to grace, charm, discovered the hidden answers that never meet? Who knew, what the hell, what the future will become, and we would, finally, co-opted by capitalism and consumerism of disposable false notion of utility to another? But for what?
And to think the link that served as the motto and mantra was broken and the afternoon was more than ever, with the old house, cheap wine, the drunkenness and mental our spontaneity to the surface. Thinking that everything was gone, and what’s left then? Only the dawn of a new day, which gradually makes us who we were …

Sheila and her rose garden of stone.

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