"She wants something from me... She is like me; empty, hollow, soulless. But she longs for it. Something only I could give her. So it turns into my longing too. My willing... My necessity."
There was something Father Harrisson could never understand. He always knew I didn't have feelings. He was the only one to know it though. Used to be. He taught me to fake those feelings to the nuns, to the salesman and to the old lady on the street fairs. He taught me to fake them to the other children. And he taught me well. But there was something I didn't have to fake and he couldn't understand.
I could see music, I could know music, I could almost shake hands with music. What I mean is that everytime I would listen to a melody, one without voices singing, I could see its true form, literally, in shapes and colours, and a unique personality. While the notes were tangling and turning and changing, I could see something taking form. And by the time the music was over, I was facing a whole individual.
It was never something random. Each note had a shape and a colour. Just like you know they have a different sound, each one. And they have different combinations: A minor in front of a C is never like C in front of A minor.
It's almots mathematical. Always exact, but infinte.
Mozart is usually happy, frenetic, daring. Beethoven is more deep, lonely, sad. Sometimes grumpy.
I didn't have feelings but I could recognize them since I was born. Eventually I found out I could borrow those personalities and feelings from those melodic individuals. It was better than faking.
Maybe this was mechanims I was born with. A mechanism of self-protection. Maybe it's just something I created for fun. But there's something Father Harrisson and everybody else learned and agreed with. I was talented for music.
Play the music just once, sometimes just half, and I will tell you all the notes, on the right time, with the right tone. And you will choose an instrument and I will reproduce the music on it.
But what happens when a person who doesn't have any feelings, who doesn't carry a soul decides to compose something? Turns out that the music is still more alive than its creator. She is alive!
I hear it in my head. She wanted something. Something to fill the emptiness. She wanted me to give it to her. And she was starting to make part of me. Her need turning into mine. Her willing taking over mine. And I couldn't control it. I wanted it! A life. She wanted me to give her a life. I couldn't give mine. Mine was empty as well. So I took a life. I took many lives.
The only thing I regret is having caused Father Harrisson so much trouble. We had to move very often. Sometimes we would move two or three times a year.
He would do anything to protect me. To protect his little monster. I appreciate that. I know its value.
"I did it again, Father", I would say.
After sometime he would just ask me if I had done it right; if I was sure I had not left or forgotten anything behind that could lead to us.
Oh, how I loved the old times. No blood tests, no fingerprints identifications, no GPS, no internet.
And you ask me why I'm so technophobic. Technology made my life...tragic. And somewhat boring.
There was something Father Harrisson could never understand. He always knew I didn't have feelings. He was the only one to know it though. Used to be. He taught me to fake those feelings to the nuns, to the salesman and to the old lady on the street fairs. He taught me to fake them to the other children. And he taught me well. But there was something I didn't have to fake and he couldn't understand.
I could see music, I could know music, I could almost shake hands with music. What I mean is that everytime I would listen to a melody, one without voices singing, I could see its true form, literally, in shapes and colours, and a unique personality. While the notes were tangling and turning and changing, I could see something taking form. And by the time the music was over, I was facing a whole individual.
It was never something random. Each note had a shape and a colour. Just like you know they have a different sound, each one. And they have different combinations: A minor in front of a C is never like C in front of A minor.
It's almots mathematical. Always exact, but infinte.
Mozart is usually happy, frenetic, daring. Beethoven is more deep, lonely, sad. Sometimes grumpy.
I didn't have feelings but I could recognize them since I was born. Eventually I found out I could borrow those personalities and feelings from those melodic individuals. It was better than faking.
Maybe this was mechanims I was born with. A mechanism of self-protection. Maybe it's just something I created for fun. But there's something Father Harrisson and everybody else learned and agreed with. I was talented for music.
Play the music just once, sometimes just half, and I will tell you all the notes, on the right time, with the right tone. And you will choose an instrument and I will reproduce the music on it.
But what happens when a person who doesn't have any feelings, who doesn't carry a soul decides to compose something? Turns out that the music is still more alive than its creator. She is alive!
I hear it in my head. She wanted something. Something to fill the emptiness. She wanted me to give it to her. And she was starting to make part of me. Her need turning into mine. Her willing taking over mine. And I couldn't control it. I wanted it! A life. She wanted me to give her a life. I couldn't give mine. Mine was empty as well. So I took a life. I took many lives.
The only thing I regret is having caused Father Harrisson so much trouble. We had to move very often. Sometimes we would move two or three times a year.
He would do anything to protect me. To protect his little monster. I appreciate that. I know its value.
"I did it again, Father", I would say.
After sometime he would just ask me if I had done it right; if I was sure I had not left or forgotten anything behind that could lead to us.
Oh, how I loved the old times. No blood tests, no fingerprints identifications, no GPS, no internet.
And you ask me why I'm so technophobic. Technology made my life...tragic. And somewhat boring.
xxxx
Este texto é protegido por direitos autorais. Registrado em cartório. Se copiar já sabe que vai levar pau!
R.N.
3 comments:
There´s no perfect crime; there´s no perfect technology. Both just aspire to be perfect in order to be admired.
A criminal needs to hide his doings to protect himself/herself. Sometimes, however, he/she wants to be noted. Paradoxically, revealing his/her secret is the only way to be admired.
Technology, on the other hand, protects its secrecy. It must be infallible to be admired and it would never reveal its flaws.
But both can be uncontrollable. The first one because he/she cannot hold his/her own life; the second because seems to come alive, unleashed.
Sounds to me that killing is part of this character, part of its being, like a natural predator. Something he can´t live without.
But it just an extract. Maybe the story as a whole could give us more tip about the character.
------
Te amo!
Esse texto é muito bom!
Veja se Sérgio não falou mais do que duas linhas! XD
Fiquem bem!
Post a Comment