“The cute girl with a surfboard and a straw hat” ou “A tale about a hat and what was under it”

beach-fashion-girl-hat-water-FavimThe cute girl with a surfboard and a straw hat

On my bed I lay. Blink once, blink twice. Snooze the button with the hand, if you can. First clock turned down, but the second clock makes you go up. Snooze it.

Water in the face. Wake up. Water on the head. Freeze up. My snoozed mind just won’t make peace with time. One, two minutes it seems, but half an hour on the shower pass by me. Ahh, time to eat.

Turn, click, burn. Toast the bun. Click, click, beep. Heat the milk. Don’t forget the coffee, maybe that cheer you up. Maybe all that the day wants from you to start its a taste of your java.

Warm bed, cold shower. Hot coffee, cold morning. Outside it’s still dark, and I’m glad. Life at dawn is just good, you see. The sidewalk, the trees, the keys on my pocket, clicking. The air, the sky and me. All still kind of chilling, all still kind of sleeping.

Walk, walk. Step, step. Take the buses to the real world. Go, go, go. Go to study, go to work. Your day just began. Just like the other day. And just like all those other days, as far as you remember, you see. See behind there, behind the tree and the factory. The dawn walked by with time. There he is. The Sun, it is.

Warming day, quiet day. On the first bus you take every day, throughout the shore you go, and other people running at the beach you stare at. To the sand you just say:  ‘Maybe another day’.

Warming day. Mid-day.

Busy day, hot day. Living in the coast isn’t all that great. Life isn’t like you would like to be. Responsibilities, you see, it’s what makes you do what you have to do. You didn’t ask for it, neither did I. It just comes along with all the years that, you too didn’t asked to go by.

One, two, three. Twenty years. Each year you grow it’s a year of maturity, can’t you see? People expect things from you. Great many things. They don’t say what those things are, but expect them anyway.

Went on, living as usual as can be, going to school, going to work. Going from a point to another. Work, work, work. Run, run, run. Do that and that and that. Don’t forget the other thing.

Sunny day, sunny Sun. Burning the streets and people’s face. I can feel it and so can they. But here we are, on this burning train. Not at home, not in our beaches, not anywhere on this city where we would want to be. Call it life, call it society. Call it whatever, I call it monotony.

Every day, every time. In every bus you can see that you’re not the only one here. One, two, thirty. How ever did we fit that many? Many, many people. Many humans. Many human heat. So, so much heat.

You wait. You have to. You’re not there yet, just wait. Can you hear it? The city cries to you. Cries with the anger of angry cars, with busy men. Cry with the cry of a baby up front in the wagon, in this tin can train. Oh well, what are you going to do? You wait. The woman in your front is in the same position as you. Ugly woman. Red woman. Fainting woman. And the baby ceased crying.

Each stop, a relief. Each mile, each person that leaves a room leaves a space, is a bless. The clock goes round and round, the miles goes on straight and curly. Mile, mile, space, space. As always, in the end, there’s just you. You and a few others. The relief it’s momentary. The real life, the real effort is yet to be. One, two, three. Five days it seems, since my bed I left. But the clock tells you’re mistaken, for just an hour it has been.

Bus stop, end of line. A few more instants to begin. And so it is. Doors open, heat comes in. The people on the outside just don’t want to wait for you to go out,  start pushing heads and fists to get in. My goodness, the fight to live. I can do it. I can leave the tin can and step in the oven, as always. Heads and fists, old ladies in the way. The sidewalk, finally I get there. And as I stand there, I just can not believe.

Behind the sea of heads and arms, killing each other, I watch  the tip of a surfboard moving. Standing there I can see, waiting for the genocide to cease and all that. I saw her there. The cute girl, with a surfboard in hands and a straw hat.

Turn, click, burn. Toast my heart. Click, click, beep. Seems to stop the beat.

One, two, a million seconds it seems. I don’t know how much time that is, but everything stands still, motionless to me. I hear the silence in the air. No more cars buzzing, no more cry. No more beats from my heart.  My eyes keep telling my mind about what it sees, but my mind don’t care to what it has to tell, for the cute girl with a straw hat stands right there.

Sunny day, sunny sun. Sunny light, sunny her. Look at her. Tanned legs, tanned hands. Shining skin, look at that. Look at those eyes, under that hair, under that hat, look at that. Look how she moves that arm, to put her surfboard in the tin can. Look, look, how she moves her legs, to fit herself in between them in the crowd. Look at that hat, loosing itself in that sea.

Doors closing. I think someone said something, but it sounded just like nothing. The tin can bus starts moving, starts to go all the way around, carrying that hat, inside the sea of stupidity, taking her all the way back from were just a few seconds ago I left. There, on the beach that I first saw this morning, riding that first bus. There, all the way back from where I will not return until it is late,  there it goes, the board, the hat.

How can I go on now? How can I accept the dull life that is still to start, when I just saw this? How can I believe that for so long I have lived that same life, that same way, that same place and never once had witnessed her? My mind and my heart are one. So quiet as can be, so hysterical as it should be. The tin can just made the turn, it’s going to pass again by me on the other side, to another run.

‘Run’, someone said. ‘Follow the hat’, the legs said as they start to move. The tin can was growing speed, to far away from here. Through the window, the tip of the board stands beside the tip of the hat. I can see, under it, behind the sea of monotony. The face, the hair, the all. Clear as the sun light on the tanned leg that is there too, moving towards back to the city. And to the end of the station I am moving, to the end of the brightest moment of this day. The tin can speeds up, and then, as it goes away, a head move in the sea. A glimpse of her. A glimpse of me she sees, I am sure. And then, there is no more. No more station to run, no more hat, no more light. And there it goes.

You see, I can’t go on now. A million seconds it lasted, but just half a minute it seamed. And there is no more, no. No more dull work, dull study. Behind me is my destination. There on the horizon, the place where I should be.

A original NoAéreo’s tale.

Um original NoAéreo.

O motivo para o texto estar em inglês são dois. Porque eu quis treinar minha escrita e porque a história fica mais sonora. E porque eu gosto de inglês. TRÊS! Três são os motivos pelos quais….

Dias. Pedro

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  1. […] deixar só estes. Claro, tem outros que eu gosto, como “The cute girl with a straw hat”, “As pequenas coisas”, ou o recente “Perversa”. Mas esses são muito […]



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