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Mini Ensaio sobre originalidade e clichê

       O que ousa ser um texto se não uma captura de emoções e pensamentos moldados e corrompidos pela letra? É bem superficialmente banal falar do que parece ser algo inovador do pensamento pra sempre cair  tão  clichê, mas nem todo clichê nasce do mesmo berço.      Simplicidade também é profunda, e toda repetição tem suas diferenças mesmo sendo cópias, pois apenas são cópias porque desconsideramos até certo ponto suas diferenças para determiná-las como cópias de outras, porque sempre é o desejo que dita as maquinas, não é?       Matar a tentativa por rimar com o antigo é como dizer que a história sempre se reflete. Mata qualquer tentativa de abstração que leva a interação de eu e tu como humanos à morte prematura do mais provável, do "se parece, logo é": respiro como tu logo sou tu, respirei como tu então respirarei como tu.      Demandar o bom do pensamento é afirmar que ele nunca pode ser bom. Eu gosto b...

Boxes and worlds

         Alone, in a road, the same road as always, the road takes her back, back to somewhere, somewhere always familiar.

    A home a lot would call it, but she doesn't see it as that, or at least not only as that, but instead, as the center of her world. A chamber with no echo to be seen, a giant toy which no kid has ever played with, at least not recently, a tea certainly at least a millennium due, but certainly sugary, a pillar half made of atoms, the other half made from what should've been something, but now only air exists.

    A bed with no mattress, as it never existed; a hole bitten down to ashes, that she uses to pass by. But why is all that... that? She certainly doesn't care to know, but even thought it as comfy as a wooden box can be, she was happy with it, and not knowing why all of all didn't bothered her, and why should it? doesn't seems like it should matter.

    Why would you grief for something that you don't know? you could grief for the fact of not knowing, but that depends on other things that you do know, but how do you grief, if you don't have anything to miss?

    And there she goes on, in a single road, one that she has done for god knows how much time. Why? she doesn't really know, but the building of that road certainly brings joy to her, somehow, and literally nobody knows, because there is only her on this world, which, in fact, is only an island.

    An island which no man or woman has stepped foot upon for a long time, but why? war? confinement? simply not liking it at all? All of those are more then valid, but it doesn't impact her at all, she never even went on to make those questions, all that matters is that there she is, and there she lives.

    Bystanders may haven passed by, seen part of the road, and turn away as whoever may have built it, is more then dead, or if it isn't dead, as it has always been, forever. But dead she isn't, but to the Bystander her existence doesn't matter; as she is just an ant, an happy ant. 

    One that broke against the only prison that she lived in, a simple box, a shoe box. A shoe box that traveled at least 2 oceans, which she was the only one who survived on a colony, close to a tea, all inside a shoe box.

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