«I used to adapt myself. But mere survival isn't much of a victory, is it? When as a child I had difficulty breathing because of all that security, I used to execute my toy animals. Tied nooses around their necks and let them dangle from the furniture or two hooks in the ceiling where lamps had once hung. Just like Aunt Hannah found Uncle Oscar hanging from a rope behind a wardrobe he had pushed out from the wall in their bedroom. Ivan pulled whiskers and tactile hairs from Sinus's eyes. With tweezers.
We had to work off our aggression, do something we knew that no one could stand. I hated it when my big brother mistreated Sinus, for Sinus was my cat, and he probably felt revulsion at the sight of those dangling animals and dolls that met his gaze when he entered my room.
Instinctively we had to suck in oxygen in order to put up any resistance. It was a joy connected with freeing ourselves by recklessly protesting. It was the only way we could change ourselves.I get right to the top. Am aware of my own breathing, as I look out across the garden. Take a deep breath. Inhale the air again and again. Rub a tear away from the corner of my eye with the back of my hand and see the wide sky, clear and transparent. Lean forward along the top plank, it's frayed with age. For many years the garden was the quintessence of safety. Toss my hair aside. From here, the garden looks like an abyss. Swing one leg over to the other side. Risk is the only survival. See in a flash two separate worlds become one living one. Find a way out. Find a way in. Look for a foothold…»
Pia Tafdrup in 'Hengivelsen'
by fiona bacana
ps: ben, tinhas razão!
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