Micael Magalhães
Screen Shot 2018-11-24 at 8.40.55 PM.png

word

Here rests Micael Magalhaes’ collection of thoughts. Writing as an art in the intention to relief its own mind of its demons and gods. To disclose his philosophical, noisy and paradoxical perspective of the world.

Bloodless for now

Bloodless for now

In this week several people I know passed away. None close friends, some friends of friends and some personalities. In addition, some are sick. I am trying to feel compelled to be sad about this dreadfulness surrounding me. However, I’m finding it really rough to do so. Before I can even think of myself as a callous person, I take a good look at myself and calm down. 

Not in a Tolstoyan feeling as in “The death of Ivan Ilyich”: I’m sad, but thank god is him and not me. 

But in a more self comprehensive meditation, giving I’m feeling emotionally numb and drained. My attempts of getting out of this umbral have not been very successful recently. How can I even be sorry and touched with this crazy accidents, illness and deaths without being able to even feel myself?

Most of my attempts of penance are in vain. New York City is a lonely city. Actually, life is a lonely city. Time loops, smartphones, overwork, vanity, envy; all those keep you from finding yourself and connecting with others. 

Maybe my current depression is mostly loneliness, nevertheless, this time seems new to me. I’ve never felt so stupefied before. Life seems to be loosing its chaotic characteristic and gaining a ferocious tone. As in an angry dadaist god about to perform a scat show.  

In the words of one of my favorite voices: Andrew Bird, Bloodless

“…And it's an uncivil war

It's an uncivil war

It's an uncivil war

Bloodless for now

And the poets they explode like bombs

Bloodless for now

While the gentry is drinking Moet Chandon

Bloodless for now…”

Life feels bloodless for now; Everyday the line between being dead, alive, ill, healthy, wealthy and famished seems to narrow. Everything is becoming chauvinistic, as if we’re in a verge of an explosion. I fell like a hermit on the top of a peak, just looking at all the manure rambling around, now the waste matter is starting pile up so high that is touching my feet. 

My peace might be a waiting game, sometimes you need to wait to make the right decision, to don’t be impulsive and tear life. Provided that, once I can learn how to feel again, do the act of my cause.