Versão em Português.

I am a hoarder by nature. In fact, I could argue that this relates to my vocation as a storyteller, because, to tell stories, you have to collect them. But, however poetic I can make it sound, I have to fight the temptation of hoarding endlessly. I see the act of passing things on to others as its own form of storytelling, making sure the world of possibilities that they contain won’t be stuck with me forever. I have given away half of my snow globes, a bunch of hardcover books (my favourite ones). Gifting my own possessions feels like letting go of parts of myself, but isn’t that the reason why sharing is so meaningful? It is a hopeful act, that whatever I have to offer can be like a seed, bringing new life into existence when it falls on good soil.

I have been living on the internet since I was a teenager, and I have a bunch of memories scattered across different platforms. Maybe most people my age feel the same, as if most of our lives had been kept online, in virtual spaces and formats. At least once a week, I take a trip down the gallery on my phone, going through the different seasons of my life, past experiences, people I have known, things I have seen and photographed, those that I have never posted about, screenshots of news and events that are no longer relevant, or conversations that I barely remember having. Today, I came across a memory of exactly one year before, when I was trying to teach a friend how to read poetry. I found the picture I sent him, counting the poetic syllables of a well-known Brazilian poem: “Mas as coisas findas,/muito mais que lindas,/essas ficarão.” (But the things that end,/much more than beautiful,/they will remain.)

I strongly believe in a metaphor that came to me in a dream, a few months ago, of building relationships like building a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean of anything (it might not always be water, but this is a topic for another text). In my dream, I climbed up the stairs of the lighthouse; at the top, I could see the night sky, the ocean, the light, and a friend, and I met a different friend every single time I woke up then fell asleep again. My mind was telling me that we had reached the point of no return—when two people build something together, and what they can do for each other, amidst the chaos of living. I am fascinated by people and the marks we leave on each others’ lives. This is the beauty of the pages of the story that we write, as we go through the world—the worn edges, the teardrops that blur the ink and turn full stops into commas.

I write because I like to pass stories on, because I don’t want them to be stuck with me forever. That one day, I taught my friend how to read poetry, then he wrote a poem about me, and I wrote a poem about him, and then we fought, and we haven’t spoken since. It’s been a year, it’s not a lot, and so many things have changed, but the lighthouse is still there, even if I have stopped going up the stairs to meet him, and the steps and rails are covered in dust. We might miss those who have come and gone, but it does bring me some comfort to know (or believe) that nothing comes and goes in vain.

As I sailed these seas, I made sure to bring light at every stop along the way. Sometimes, as I navigate the days, the light of a distant lamp reaches me from afar. Sometimes, it is so bright that it almost blinds me through my eyelids, and I realise I hadn’t noticed I had come this close to old, familiar waters… Even when it brings me to tears, I know it’s for the better. It lights the way to other seas, other shores, places to build other lighthouses, that will help us go to even farther places, and so on. At the end of the day, this is just one of many ways to think about the most beaten up clichés of living, but such is life, whether we like it or not. This is as much as I have to offer today: a picture, a text, and three verses: “But the things that end,/much more than beautiful,/they will remain.“

This is the first part of a series. Part 2 (untranslated). Part 3.

      Photo by Casey Horner on Unsplash