Questionario

Estou a desenvolver um projecto sobre os Alunos Portugueses e as Oportunidades (ensino superior) são 5 minutos e e um tema importante se puderem responder e partilhar com os estudantes que conheçam seria óptimo!!! Obrigada

Survey Os Alunos e as Oportunidades - Survey Monkey

Thoughts and Whatever Followed Them

Staring at the window on rainy days has proved its value time and time again. I apologise, through the window it is. A stare stolen from whatever is really going on, the pen goes down and the time passes by. But it is not the algebra that is the main point here, you see? It is the fella with the red striped coat, depicted in soft pastels. He is the main point of the question.

What was I to say to him?

Should I answer that a stare has gone through and through and left for good? Or should I instead be truthful and assume the guilt of inspiration? I must scream his name, I think, for I know him well! May I speak to you for a second, Sir? May I ask just another silly overrated question about that pen I just relentlessly dropped on the carpet?

Oh, why does he just go and keeps on going forever? I wish he would stop, oh I wish he would just paused for a second in its dream of reality! Can you just please give me one second of peace, let me think for a minute and actually make reason of everything that is going through my mind! It is exhausting I tell you.

The fella in the red striped coat always ends up asleep though, which helps my case. He fights and fights, sometimes until dawn breaks the skies and floods the day. But he always ends up asleep.

Not to worry, there is the certainty of him appearing again tomorrow and the next day, and the next. Or so I hope, at least.

(original em "The Prologue to Cynicism," sob pseudónimo)

New project

With a friend, in english

The Prologue to Cynicism

under pseudonym :)

A pub and two pints

The black swirled in the half full glass: or maybe it was half empty I couldn't really tell by the amount how much it still had in its soul. The point really is that it was always the same, a full pint of Guinness. Crisp and steady, just like her, immune to foolish change of teenage heart. The speech was paused and stout, well thought and argued; she did not appreciate frail responses or even the calamity of emotional remarks - that is what I find most intriguing and exciting.


Then it came that grin of understanding - I had lived up to the task on hand. But I must be no fool, I thought, as the situation might change any minute. It was a completely balanced and two-sided conversation, and the fast pace made it interesting enough. The subject changed again, and it was my time to strike a fatal blow and disarm her of any viable comeback – ‘S., you cannot possibly be seriously saying that relationships are not emotional aspects of one’s life. Take reason out of the equation, for god’s sake, kill it for a moment! Let fire fill your heart with passion, let your soul sing with confidence and rhythm! Do not become trapped in the jail of reason and rationality on this, for you’ll lose so much! Do not let a hug kill you in its empire; or overpower your willingness to strive! Let it fly and let it burn, make it revolve around the world of feeling!’ I was standing, all poet in my state, arms risen to the task at hand.

Apologies, please proceed.

And I sat in my silence, embarrassed to the spine. Had it been too much? Will she ever forgive me for such intrusion? I thought of nothing to say but I wanted to explain that I understood, that is greatly appreciated and that she was right in everything else: when she said I had become somewhat too emotional, and should not be going back. When she fully and deeply analysed the situation and reached the viable and understandably short conclusion that I was in love with him. And I said that I knew, of course I knew but what should I do? How to go on knowing he won’t be there and how much of me will disappear with the fact? And she held my hand in an act of kindness and said it would be gone one day, and I had to be strong.

And it did. And today, my friend, I say right back at you.

Gritem

Gritem, não alimentem ilusão! Gritem silêncios danados e armas em riste, enfraqueçam ouvidos cheios de arrogância, por favor, gritem!
Façam da verdade a imponência do saber, da direcção comum o objectivo final!
Gritem aos quatro ventos e aos navios do mundo, rebentem estações marcadas!
Os braços que não mais se unam, nunca mais, as mãos abertas de emoção sentida!
Gritem as palavras silenciadas e os versos fechados em copas, a garganta que se inflame e a voz que não se corrompa!
E no fim que saibam que gritaram tudo e não fique a memória do arrependimento desencontrado. Que fique o grito, longo em vida, ouvido infinitamente, cravado no céu.

Just popped in my head today

'Talk sense to a fool, and he will call you foolish.' - Euripides

Carolina (excerto)

     Deparava-se de frente com a imagem. Subtil e enevoada, esquecida na memória e feita para se perder. Esforçava-se por alcançar distância e direcção. Atirava as mãos à cabeça, gritava som de tenor, bradava aos céus.

     Mas porquê, porquê esquecer isto? Como, de importância, de sentido tão presente? Como fora capaz?

     Chamava-se Carolina, isso ele remetia ao passado. A essência da circunstância e do momento escapavam-se, mas o  nome assaltava-lhe a lembrança. Carolina, Carolina. Como o nome distante no tempo, sorria-lhe. Acenava subtilmente, cabeça quase a tocar no ombro esquerdo. Não sorriso de arrogância ou cinismo, mas de perfeição imperfeita. Não lhe discernia os traços, não se lembrava, era tudo uma nuvem demasiado densa. (...)

Inês Galamba de Oliveira