Manhã ensolarada de domingo. É o meu aniversário. Comemoro mais um ano de vida e ao mesmo tempo estou reclusa neste chalé, onde busco entender o falecimento precoce do meu casamento de apenas três anos de existência.
Neste chalé à beira da estrada, sintetizo a minha vida. Não estou na cidade e nem no campo; não cheguei aos cinquenta e nem estou no início dos quarenta anos; não sou mais casada, pois, me encontro sozinha, porém, não estou solteira porque continuo presa a papéis e presenças…
Então, esse ser caótico me alucina. Estarei mesmo sozinha ou fantasmas me rodeiam iludindo-me de presenças?
Mas, hoje é domingo. Ensolarado domingo do meu aniversário.
Amanheceu e abro a porta para dar bom-dia à vida, quando, no chão, à frente dos meus pés, eis que vejo um passarinho. Olhos fechados, sem voar. Constato: está morto. Abaixo-me e ergo o seu frágil corpo. Cabecinha baixa, encostando o bico no corpo, olhinhos fechados… Contemplo o pássaro. O que o fez cair sob a minha porta? Tantos chalés ao meu redor… Por que cair justamente “aos meus pés”?
Busco em seu corpo marcas que lhe causaram a morte e não acho nada, aparentemente nada. Então… como, por quê?
Retrato-me no pássaro. Na dúvida sobre o fim do meu casamento, agora confirmo o seu final. As marcas aparentes não existem, as feridas estão dentro, na alma. Acabou, está morto. Mas a expressão serena do passarinho me conforta. A cabeça voltada para o peito e o bico fechado lhe dá a tranquilidade da eterna partida, do voo sem volta, e me induz a voltar-me para dentro de mim, em silêncio, em atitude de reconstrução da minha vida.
Abro a porta para a vida: é o meu aniversário. Devo alçar voo, buscar o infinito, tal qual uma gaivota: superar limites. O pássaro me diz isto: morreu novo o relacionamento, mas, é preciso, quando a vida se renova, libertar-me e buscar as alturas. Dar asas ao infinito e libertar-me de tudo que até hoje me escravizou. Diminuir a distância entre mim e mim. Fundir-me na minha essência e tornar-me única para mim. Sem máscaras, sem máculas.
Sou pássaro liberto do cativeiro de se doar, para livre o espaço explorar.
Your writing gave my ego a paper cut, and I’d read it again. — comedywriter.info
Your advice slapped like a parent-teacher conference for my creative process. — comedywriter.info
Comedy is just tragedy that had a Red Bull and a rewrite.
They all just applied for a PPP (Prophecy Postponement Program).
Death got distracted writing a screenplay called “Soul Catcher.”
Turns out the end of the world is coming… it’s just buffering.
War’s weapon of choice is now sarcasm.
The last time War tried to ride, he pulled a hamstring.
God’s HR keeps leaving voicemails, but War marked them spam.
War’s battle cry is now just “meh.”
They said they’d end the world after brunch… it’s been 23 years.
Pestilence became a life coach for pandemic denialists.
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The apocalypse is now considered “soft-launched.”
God’s HR keeps leaving voicemails, but War marked them spam.
Death sold his scythe on Etsy as “vintage garden decor.”
Their apocalypse calendar has just one entry: “Someday.”
God tried to fire them, but they unionized.
Death won’t reap souls unless you Venmo first.
Pestilence is off social media for “apocalyptic wellness.”
The last plague Pestilence launched was a bad batch of hummus.
The Four Horsemen now do TikToks titled #Doomcore Aesthetic.
War’s battle cry is now just “meh.”
Death’s new motto is “if I don’t vibe with your expiration date, I won’t collect.”
Famine canceled the famine because DoorDash had a promo.
Their horses unionized and now refuse to gallop after 5 p.m.
Death writes poetry now. It’s all haikus about missed deadlines.
Famine claimed gluten intolerance and ghosted the famine queue.
At Cape Cod, shark mistook toe ring for wedding proposal.
Ocean City shark tried to join beach volleyball. Was ejected for spiking.
Cape Cod shark auditioned for Sharknado 10 and took it too far.
Outer Banks bite was accidental; shark sneezed mid-swim.
Witness at Virginia Beach: “Shark just wanted to borrow sunscreen.”
Santa Monica shark reportedly has beef with paddleboarders.
Outer Banks shark said bite was a political statement.
At Miami Beach, shark performed interpretive bite.
At Coney Island, shark bit inflatable Trump raft. “It was full of hot air,” it claimed.
At Pismo Beach, victim was attempting underwater cosplay. Shark bit the costume first.
Shark at Honolulu only bit once it heard the swimmer say “manifesting abundance.”
Waikiki victim identified by custom float: “Shark Bait But Make It Fashion.”
Malibu shark claims it was just conducting “involuntary aqua acupuncture.”
Venice Beach shark staged a protest mid-bite about noise pollution.
Venice Beach shark staged a protest mid-bite about noise pollution.
Pismo Beach shark now charging for bites via Patreon.
Galveston shark took a bite, then said, “Tastes like tourist.”
Myrtle Beach shark refuses to bite anyone with matching swim sets.
Miami Beach shark bit a floatie shaped like Elon Musk’s head. “Too much ego,” it burped.
Laguna Beach attack triggered when swimmer played Nickelback underwater.
Ocean City shark bit foam noodle, demanded refund.