Paulo Seabra

Excerpts from Nostos 286. THE PARABLE OF THE TAX COLLECTOR He that hath ears to hear, let him hear. There was once an honest man who lived alone. He grew his own food by working hard under the sun with his own two hands until they bled. For drink, he traveled to the nearby river and drew fresh water from the stream. For warmth, he chopped down trees and lit them ablaze against the cold. And at night he guarded himself, his house and his work from the howling wolves that came from the forest, under the cold cover of darkness. Verily, his life was tough, but it was all his. He did not think of what was good or bad, he just accepted things as they were. It is what it is, he'd always think to himself, as if it was a new truth each time. But one day a wandering traveler came walking in the distance. The honest man watched carefully, and waited. The wandering traveler approached with a smile, as they often do, gave a courteous bow and began his memorized speech. – Sweet friend, we have ...

Excerpts from Nostos 260. SNAIL IN A BOX I saw a snail crawl inside a black box. The snail was a perfectly unique creature, perhaps the only one in existence with the same exact shape on its shell, which was lighter around its outer edge, with flowing streams of multiple colors, and it became distinctly darker and darker as the lines spiraled towards the center. Admiring the creature, I would follow its lines as if hypnotized, being led to an infinite point that only became more distant and more impossible. The horizon simultaneously became where I looked at and where I was. And the creature crawled along the surface, the ceiling, and the four walls of the black box, into which no light entered, though I could still see the snail's shell, its almost white, repulsive body, and its wandering bulging eyes. And though I followed the creature, as it was all that was visible inside that black box, I would also lose myself in the spiral of its shell and I'd forget on which side of t...

Excerpts from Nostos 265. ONEIRONAUTIKÓS #8 I was seating at a round table covered by a silky white cloth. The mood was dimmed with otherwise bright pink and orange lights, moving and glowing and blinking for all the dancers. To my left were my friends, to my right was her, and in front of us were her friends, sitting on the neighboring table, only a little more than an arm's length away. Suddenly, I looked to my left and the seats were empty. My friends had wandered off, mingling, joining with the rest of the party. I glanced at her and looked away. She would only look down at the tablecloth, fiddling with it. After a bored sigh it crossed her mind to end the eternity of that awkward silence. – Have you met my sister? Her voice was calm, cool and collected. I glanced at the other table. Four girls, all friends of hers, were sat in a row, throwing a string of teasing smiles at me. The fourth girl was exactly like the girl sitting next to me, indeed, they are twins. I looked at all...

Excerpts from Nostos 243. THE BAFFLED KING Where hast thou gone? When hast thou forsaken me? When I was crowned king I ruled over a vast kingdom. Now all have I lost, and all is vanity. The cold morning air creeps through my castle window so as to wake me. And the light that finds me is dark as the lightest dusk. Still, I rise and walk out into the world. Behold your king, I say to the deserted dew-covered fields through which my saddened voice echoes. There are no more steps in the long, winding corridors, no drowned voices through the stone walls, no tired hands building homes, no fathers wielding swords, no mothers tending children... I don my armor of heavy gold, silver and pride, and though I have no destiny, I carry on, leaving behind nothing but a bed half-cold. Lush ivy spreads in between the rifts of my castle walls, the grass outside grows tall and wild, the well overflows with the rain of days gone by. No war has my kingdom seen save that of time... Earth and wind will recla...

Excerpts from Nostos 182. THE ART OF PORNOGRAPHY Pornography is an art form. That is my thesis for this essay. I shall expose my argument regarding this strange subject, as well as explain how I understand its nature. The first counter-argument one needs to dispel is simple. It is the natural, almost guttural response one hears regarding the subject itself, understandably so, I'd say. Someone will ask, how can such disgusting, demeaning, distasteful acts be considered art? Simply put, pornography being art doesn't entail that all pornography, or rather, all forms of sexual behavior documented in images, still or moving, constitute art. In that same manner, one would argue that music is art even whilst acknowledging certain types of atrocious music. It follows with everything else. From this we can draw two implications – either we argue that it is bad music and therefore it can't be art, or we argue that it doesn't meet certain standards in order to be classified as pro...

Excerpts from Nostos 109. I wander through dreams in which I see evergreen meadows breathing in the wind, all while a soft tingling lyre whispers the thoughts of ancient nymphs, and the sun shines bright for you today... It casts cool, dancing shadows all through the olive tree of your comfort. And so as to evade all and any pain, I wish for you to imagine my lips upon your cheek, as I will imagine yours upon mine, and nothing more. All else fades away with each touch... Your beauty, forever fleeting, and mine, that never was, and then the moment becomes but a shadow too, the pleasure turns to bitter pain, and all the rest, a grave disappointment. For the beauty of a goddess is beseeched and dreamed of amidst the calm sleep of the naive soul, never to be truly embraced. We gaze at each other's lips and no more, so that this shall be our everlasting secret, the desire to kiss. For we never begun what was bound to end. All we had was ours, for we had nothing. 181. I spoke with a dep...

Às vezes, quando um sentimento de raiva se apodera de mim, imagino que surge na minha boca uma segunda boca que vem para me triturar os dentes todos, reduzindo-os a dez mil fragmentos que dão estalidos entre si com o ritmo de cada deslocação desse segundo maxilar estranho, e a minha língua é então dilacerada em pedaços de carne fria até se rebentar por completo, perfurada pela força implacável de uma mandíbula alheia, arrepiando-me com a pressão perpétua de mil esguichos de sangue que me arranham as gengivas, tudo para satisfazer a vontade de um outro ser dentro de mim... A minha língua é uma esponja velha, apertada com tanta violência depois de ter estado dormente num charco de águas verdes e estagnadas, durante uma eternidade mais dolorosa do que o próprio aperto. 14 de março de 2013 § ESTES DIAS ESCUROS DE CHUVA DE OUTONO Hoje pensei naquele que é o único problema da filosofia e não me consegui decidir. Não há nada que eu queira exceto tudo. Vejo mulheres no metro que usam lenços na...