Loves and a Century

What about love? That huge love. That love full of people. Fucking huge. That love that clogs up the pipes. This love of crazy schizophrenic people who enjoy banging their head on the wall and throwing darts on manure. A long-legged love, wearing yellow vinyl boots, making some steak and fries on top of a hill. On debt and covered in hot chocolate. Early in the morning, dreaming of people full of dark hatred. Lifting posts to get stronger and writing logic laws. Inside the silver disk at a museum and afraid of taking the streets. Tap dancing on top of a green uniform and holding on for dear life not to fall into the abyss. Stored in an ice cream container and taking a plane to France. On metal headphones and on the brim of a hat. Amid the fire of a barbecue pit and inside the eyelid. Jumping down an elevator shaft and tightening a screw on a bolt. Chewing on wood and checking sales receipts. On the desert sun and next to the dental floss. Coming out of a water fountain and dragging a ball and chain. Saying, “These are top-quality knives” and “I'm certainly a hermaphrodite.” Wearing a ballet outfit and beating up bums on the street. Being used as seasoning and painting nails purple. Being used to kill priests and as personal lubricant. Thrown like a bowling ball on the face of the president of the Homeowners Association. Running naked down the street while masturbating frantically. Trying to take down the bathroom wall, since there's no toilet paper left. Sucking on power cords and kicking soft pillows. 

Paw love. Backward kick love. Rotten tangerine love. Love with melting glass cubes. Phlegm-flavored love. The love I found inside a sandwich. The love that talked about incendiary telephones. Love that has fake silicone belly.

The love that had already arrived saying it wanted to turn its life around and would like to ask for advice. 

“I'm done with so many things,” Love said. 
“You should avoid certain things,” I said. 
“But it's hard to avoid things when they are everywhere,” it said. 
“What things do you want to avoid?” 
“Everything,” it replied. “Everything there is.” 
“What's wrong with these things?” 
“The thing is that they exist.” 
“Of course they do,” I said. 
“Yeah, but I don't exist.”

The boy was walking and stumbled on the street. He hit his mouth on a rusted can and broke his teeth. He was taken to the hospital. A few days later, his face was infected, rotting, covered in pus. They had to extract all his teeth, but it was no use. “We need to cut his head off, so the rest of the body won't be compromised.” They placed the boy's head under a guillotine and asked if he had anything to say before they chopped it off.

“This is LOVE,” the boy said.

The woman was at home. Fifteen thieves came in. They broke everything, turned the place inside out. They asked where her jewelry were. She said she had none. They threatened to kill her if she didn't hand them to them. The woman cried and said she wasn't lying. The men grabbed some iron pipes and started to spank the woman. That was when the husband arrived. Outside the house, he saw what was happening. He came in armed with a lot of love and went for the thieves. They broke the husband to pieces, then raped the wife before they ended her life. With love.

The little boy walked to the toilet. He had never used the device intended for the disposal of urine and fecal matter. He had problems sitting down, but soon poured it all into it. Then he called his mother. 

“What is it?” she asked.
“It's love, Mom.”

Love arrived early in the afternoon at the BBQ restaurant. It started to eat. It ate a lot, for several hours.

“Are you okay, sir? Don't you think you've eaten too much?”
“No, I'm still hungry.”

It went on eating. After a few more hours, it started to scream in pain. Within moments, its body started to be torn apart. It still didn't stop eating. A few minutes later, after dying from eating too much, someone made a comment: “Love isn't one thing in particular; it is everything it is not.”

And people went on being themselves. As for me, I still am what I am not.

RAFAEL SPERLING was born in 1985 in Rio de Janeiro. He is a songwriter and music producer. He studies Songwriting at the Federal University in Rio de Janeiro. 

In 2011 he published his first book, entitled Festa na usina nuclear [Party at a Nuclear Plant], which was followed by Um homem burro morreu [A Stupid Man Died] in 2014.

His short stories have been published in several sites, including Cronópios and Musa Rara, as well as Minotauro magazine and Rascunho newspaper. He also writes a blog called Somesentido [Sound and Sense / Disappearing Sense].

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