She had an almost perfect birthday. Things got better as the day went by. She looked at them. So mute. Impersonal in their extreme beauty. With her mouth a little dry she watched them. It was necessary never to cause them alarm, especially with everything being so fresh in their minds. And, above all, to spare everyone the least anxiety and doubt. And that the attention of others should no longer be necessary. But at the same time she saw the empty glass in her hand and thought, "He said that I should not force myself to succeed, that I should not think of adopting attitutes merely to show that I am."
She no longer knows what's next. But she's happy.
She also wrote this poem in a napkin.
Quero entender o que passaria em minha mente.
Sem sabe do teu humor, da tua fe
Quero procurar aquilo que tu desejas
E encontrar o eterno em ti
Quero o saber, o sonhar, o prazer
De te amar
Quero tanto, que acima de tudo
Quero parar de querer.
Certain times of the morning struck her by being critical. At a certain hour of the afternoon the desires she had planted laughed at her. And when nothing more required her strenght, she became anxious.
a.m.a.
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Once I found this unread letter from my grandpa at his desk, after his death: "Love your art above all things, and have the courage wich I did not have, to starve to death rather than prostitute your talents". I really don't think he meant it. But if he did, he's the reason of my mocking dreams.
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