04 de dezembro de 2015 | 19h06
— To Joao Guimaraes Rosa, the most creative of all writers.
I swim in search of the third bank of the mystic river, looking for some lost essence of the self.
Time elapses between swimming with my head out and floating with my belly up — my legs and arms ache and cramp. I cannot continue anymore.
I decide to swim back to the safe shore. No one but me in a vast stretch of sand.
Seated, I look intently to the river, tons of water solidly flowing their course. Squeezing my eyes and cupping my right hand, I struggle to find the third bank from ashore. Only I cannot. My head now feels dizzy and my vision is blurred with fatigue.
I decide to lay down on the brownish hard sand and make an effort to fall asleep.
That’s when I finally see it, the unreachable third bank. And as I delve deeper into my slumbering, I approach it, closer and closer. Curiously, I cannot tell if I swim or fly towards it, I simply sense it nearer and nearer, my heartbeat accelerating vigorously…
But just when I am about to reach it, its master — the river itself– wakes me up, gently touching my heels, reminding me I am not yet ready to explore it.