Split into chunky, serious, twinkling stars, like a stationary warning: like a lighthouse. What are they trying to say? In them I sense the secret, the twinkling is the impassive mystery I hear flowing inside me, crying in broad, desperate, romantic notes. Dear God, at least allow me to communicate with them, satisfy my desire to kiss them. To feel their light on my lips, feel it glow inside my body, leaving it sparkling and transparent, cool and moist like the minutes before dawn. Why do these strange thirsts grip me? The rain and the stars, this cold, dense mixture woke me up, opened the doors of my green, dark wood, of my wood that smells of an abyss where water flows. And made it one with the night. Here, by the window, the air is calmer. Stars, stars, I pray. The word splinters between my teeth into fragile shards. Because the rain does not fall inside me, I want to be a star. Purify me a little and I will have the mass of those beings that take refuge behind the rain. At this moment my inspiration hurts all over my body. An instant more and it will need to be more than inspiration. And instead of this asphyxiating happiness, like too much air, I will clearly feel the impotence of having more than inspiration, of going beyond it, of possessing the thing itself—and really being a star. Where madness, madness leads. . . .
Near to the Wild Heart (excerpt) by Clarice Lispector