Menino, fui como os outros: feliz

I used to have vivid dreams. Some of them, so much so that I still remember those. I dreamed of a voyage in a Portuguese man-o-war, in which we sailed through shampoo-pink seas and stopped in a reef from which strange filamentary life-forms, emerged. I dreamed that the Viscount of Cornear wanted to destroy the world using Agent Orange, and remember looking at him in the depths of the Paris Metro, carrying an old-fashioned perfume sprayer full of the deadly poison. Oddly enough, you entered the Paris metro throug steps that looked more like those of a seawall than those of a metro station, and there was a black panther treading through these steps. (Note: black panthers always improve any narrative in which they appear. Yes, this does apply to dissertations on ferromagnetic fluids.)

Now, those dreams are long gone. I dream in short, confused snatches. It's as if, but not really, there was a grey fog, through which faces and emotions appear at random, no more substantial than mist. And they are still more solid than the fog, which is not a fog but an emptiness; I bite at it, and my bites leave holes in the emptiness for a while, but there is no taste or resistance. I am biting at a pure presence.

In a way, I like to think of myself as Microcosmos. Everyone does that, to some level. I just make the issue more complex, and pedantic, than most, by removing myself from it. And the grey fog affects society as well, in a way. Think of the difference between what used to be called depression and the word's new meaning. It used to mean a deep sadness, a descent into darkness. Orpheos Bákykos making a trip to the underworld for Eurydices' sake. Now, that Tartarus has gone, and been replaced by the fate of those who wander the grey fields of Asphodel, Gehinnon, Hel. Just compare and contrast the words of Egil Skallagrimsson, nearly a thousand years ago with those of Caetano, not so long ago, and the contemporary anthem


When you were here before
Couldn’t look you in the eye
You’re just like an angel
Your skin makes me cry
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world
And I wish I was special
You’re so fuckin’ special

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here.

I don’t care if it hurts
I want to have control
I want a perfect body
I want a perfect soul
I want you to notice
When I’m not around
You’re so fuckin’ special
I wish I was special

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo.
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here.

She’s running out again,
She’s running out
She’s run run run running out...

Whatever makes you happy
Whatever you want
You’re so fuckin’ special
I wish I was special...

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo,
What the hell am I doing here?
I don’t belong here.
I don’t belong here.