Log 02 - Second Entry: The Loop

 

A spiral inside a triangle. A dandelion that won’t bloom. A night that refuses to end.

I turn the page. She’s left her mark again, the neat printed words from the notebook vanish under her ink. A triangle holds a spiral at its heart, a vortex caught on paper, looping back into itself. She writes around it: 

“Não sei o que é pior, o silêncio ou o som quando ele vem.”
I don’t know what’s worse, the silence, or the sound when it comes.

Beside it, a sketch that could be a flower, or maybe a dandelion, fragile, one breath away from disappearing.

The other side feels heavier: black ink bursts like static, and just above it, a single circle with a dot inside — like an eye reduced to its core, or a seed waiting to split open. Below, the red words bleed:  

“Tudo quanto vivi não me serve senão para desejar aquilo que nunca vivi.”
 Everything I’ve lived means nothing except to make me long for what I’ve never lived.

At the bottom, she tries to bury the thought that won’t let her go:  

“A noite aqui não acaba nunca.” 
The night here never ends. Crossed out, but not erased.

A tiny spiral spins in the corner like a silent promise to never stop. Sometimes I think these pages breathe when I read them. Sometimes I think they’re still spinning for her.

These pages are fragments left behind by Isabel S., no more and no less. © I.S.