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Love is not love.

Love is not sex,

nor calm,

nor temporary,

nor dependent,

it can’t be resumed;

love is sex

love is calm,

is temporary,

is dependent,

it can be resumed.

I don’t love,

I etern’u.

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She was walking in a large, noisy street. The smoke, the cars, the signs overwhelmed her. In a turn, she decided she couldn’t take it no longer, and she walked back to her apartment. The confusion from the outside had been transferred to the inside. Shakespeare, Fowles, Flaubert, Barnes and Freud occupied her sofa. Dirty dishes had taken over her kitchen. Even the floor had been conquered by clothes. She couldn’t go back outside or stay inside. The phone rang. Just on the last ring she picked it up. The steady and familiar voice on the other side spoke some ordinary words. The house seemed cozy during those minutes. They hang up. She couldn’t run away, her confusion was right in front of her eyes. The phone rang again. This time it was a sharp and savvy voice she could always reproduce in her head. He just wanted to know how she was doing. He didn’t want to let go. They hang up. She called him back. She told him how she felt like Madame Bovary, and Anne, and Edna and Miranda. How she couldn’t stay or leave. How everything was out of place. As they talked, she washed the dishes, put her clothes up, brought the books down. They hang up. The first voice was on the door. She met him, they kissed. The house was clean. She was home again.

Relationships are about establishing and abolishing boundaries between you, yourself, the world, the universe and, consequently, whoever you are relating with.

I love how we say mother nature, instead of father nature.
And that we go back and forth in our believes refining them.
Unfortunately, there’s quite few people paying attention to the constant and subtle changes around them.

What it would be like if we didn’t have categories?

Have you ever tried to go through a whole day without using classifications of any kind?

You wake up and want sugar for your coffee. You are already sitting on the table, so you ask your roommate who is standing to hand you the sugar. He asks which one. The white one in the blue box. 

Of course these are functional labels without which communication would be impossible. You’d have to just go and grab the sugar yourself. Not to mention that to be radical about it would mean to not name anything.

When it comes to categorizing people it all becomes a big deal. Saying you prefer refined sugar over raw is ok, but that you prefer this refined woman over the other… Not so much.

While sugar is treated as a matter of preference, the people you hang out with are not.

Of course people supposedly have feelings and sugar supposedly does not, but is it all that makes us try to be politically correct?

It might be just a defense mechanism; you don’t know the other person so you try not to offend to avoid trouble. 

Perhaps it is a matter of ego. You don’t say what you think because you don’t want to hear what’s on the other person’s mind.

Language was made for convenience (complex and primitive convenience, I should say), and maybe that’s all we do, we say of people what we find convenient.  Convenient for what? Relationships ? You? Them? I would say nothing and nobody.

Because we can’t define ourselves we don’t want others to realize before we do who we are, so instead of looking at life as a tweaked set of happenings that makes everything possible, we are attached to a linear logic that imprison us to a poorly classified reality.

You can say polysaccharide, glucose, sugar, white/brown thing; it will still have the same arrangement of atoms and sweeten your coffee.

If I hear someone call me Aná, Âna, Ena, Hannah, it strangely changes my mind set. It probably changes the chemicals inside my brain, but simply because I’ve learned to associate the way people call me with what they want from me.

The problem with this kind of association is that it leaves behind a trail of feelings and instincts that we ignore just because it is not very reasonable – or else, scientific.

We need to learn to be sugar, and assume our sugar identity. Then we’ll go beyond.

I’d like to know
What there’s to know
In this world I hope
For method
Or law
That might enlighten
Word itself
Thought itself
But repetition
It’s just good for two
I don’t know(s)
I’m 22.

Anachronic

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