Água Viva

by Clarice Lispector

The world has no visible order and all I have is the order of my breath. I let myself happen.

My aura is mystery of life.

It is itself. I am myself. You are yourself.

And so when I die, I’ll never have been born and lived: death washes away the traces of the sea-foam on the beach.

I’ve got a confession to make: I’m a little frightened. For I don’t know where my freedom will lead me. It is neither arbitrary nor libertine. But I am unbound.

I’m back. I was existing. I received a letter from São Paulo from a person I don’t know. A final suicide note. I called São Paulo. No one answered, it rang and rang and echoed as if in a silent apartment. Did he die or not die. This morning I called again: still no answer. He died, yes. I’ll never forget.

Uncomfortable.

I deepened myself but I don’t believe in myself because my thought is invented.

Each of us is a symbol that deals with symbols— everything a point of only reference to the real.

I know that after you read me it’s hard to reproduce my song by ear, it’s not possible to sing it without having learned it by heart. And how can you learn something by heart if it has no story?