Log 14 — Fourteenth Entry: I Was Here Before. Or Maybe I Never Left

The city pushed her here. The camera followed. 
A red question lingers in the silence: “Am I still here?”

Left Page

"Demorei a vir.
Estava cansada, assustada.
Mas não conseguia pensar noutra coisa. A cidade inteira parecia empurrar-me para cá.
Como se o caminho estivesse desenhado antes de mim.
Como se eu só tivesse de seguir os sinais."
"estou aqui ainda?"
It took me a while to come.
I was tired, scared.
But I couldn't think of anything else. The whole city felt like it was pushing me here.
As if the path had been drawn ahead of me.
As if all I had to do was follow the signs.
am I still here?

Right Page

"O Panorâmico é tudo o que imaginei – abandonado, imenso, cheio de ecos que não vêm de lugar nenhum.
Grafitti por todo o lado.
O chão estalando. As janelas partidas deixam a luz entrar em ângulos estranhos.
Mas o pior é o som. Ou a falta dele."
"ainda estou aqui"
The Panorâmico is everything I imagined—abandoned, immense, filled with echoes that come from nowhere.
Graffiti everywhere.
The floor cracking. Broken windows letting light in at strange angles.
But the worst part is the sound. Or the absense of it.
I'm still here.

Abandoned glass and broken light. The mural watches. 
The place is silent, but she’s never felt more observed.

Left Page

"Só o vento, os pássaros ao longe… e os meus passos.
Ali dentro, até a minha respiração parecia fora de lugar.
Logo na entrada vi o vitral.
É impossível ignorar.
Imenso, colorido, vibrando luz. As figuras pareciam suspensas no tempo –"
Only the wind, birds in the distance… and my footsteps.
Inside, even my breathing felt out of place.
Right at the entrance I saw the stained glass.
It’s impossible to ignore.
Huge, colorful, vibrating with light. The figures looked suspended in time –

Right Page 

"corpos abertos como se tentassem agarrar tudo à volta.
Fiquei ali um tempo, só a observar.
Depois tirei a foto.
Esperei. E foi nesse momento que ouvi:
passos. Na escada.
Virei-me. Vi-me.
Ou acho que vi.
"Uma escada. Um espiral."
bodies outstretched as if trying to hold everything around them.
I stood there for a while, just watching.
Then I took the photo.
I waited. And that’s when I heard it:
footsteps. On the stairs.
I turned around. I saw myself.
I think I did.
A staircase. A spiral.

She saw herself — same coat, same camera, but hollow eyes. 
A blank gaze on the stairs. Then: nothing.

Left Page

"Subia devagar, a cabeça ligeiramente inclinada, o mesmo casaco, a mesma câmara nas mãos.
Era eu.
Mas os olhos… Não eram meus.
Olhou-me por um instante — um olhar vazio, neutro. E depois continuou a subir. Corri atrás dela.
Mas quando virei a curva da escada…"
She was walking up slowly, head 
slightly tilted, same coat, same camera in her hands.
It was me.
But the eyes… They weren’t mine.
She looked at me for a moment—a blank, neutral gaze.
Then she kept climbing. I ran after her.
But when I turned the corner of the stairs…

Right Page

"nada. Vazio.
Como se nunca tivesse estado ali.
Voltei ao vitral.
A Polaroid estava pronta. A imagem?
As cores do vitral estão ali — o fundo violeta e vermelho, a figura dividida em duas cores, os braços e pernas abertos como no Homem Vitruviano."
nothing. Empty.
As if she had never been there.
I went back to the stained glass.
The Polaroid was ready. The image?
The colors from the stained glass are there—the violet and red background, the figure split in two hues, arms and legs outstretched like the Vitruvian Man.

A figure split in light and color. A spiral crossing the frame. Her 
handwriting again, but the question isn’t new: “How many times now?”

Her handwriting, but not her memory. 
Maybe the camera doesn’t capture the surface anymore.

Left Page

A escada curva aparece em primeiro plano, atravessando a moldura como uma linha em espiral.
E lá estava, escrito com a minha letra:
“Quantas vezes já?”
Fiquei a olhar para aquilo sem conseguir respirar.
Não tenho memória de ter escrito nada.
Não aqui. E não havia como — não tinha caneta.
The spiral staircase shows up in the foreground, crossing the frame like a spiral line.
And there it was, written in my handwriting:
“How many times now?”
I stared at it, unable to breathe.
I have no memory of writing anything.
Not here.  And I couldn't have — I didn't have a pen.

Right Page

As mãos tremiam.
Era a minha letra.
Mas não era eu.
Tudo isto está a repetir-se?
Estou a ser empurrada… ou consumida?
E se esta câmara não mostra o que vejo mas o que está por baixo?
E se há camadas por onde eu já andei sem saber?
My hands were shaking.
It was my handwriting.
But it wasn’t me.
Is all this repeating itself?
Am I being pushed… or consumed?
What if this camera doesn’t show what I see but what’s beneath it?
What if there are layers I’ve already walked through without knowing?

Questions multiply. Eyes and spirals spiral outward. 
The handwriting unravels, or opens a door.

Left Page

" Talvez eu tenha estado aqui antes.
Ou talvez ainda vá estar." 
"olhos meus"
"olhos teus"
Maybe I have been here before.
Maybe I still will be.
my eyes
your eyes

Right Page 

"Quantas vezes já?"
Devo ir?
Onde vou?
Sou eu?
Quem sou?
Já fui? Vou ainda?"
How many times now?
Should I go?
Where am I going?
Am I?
Who am I?
Have I been? Am I still going?

She’s been here. Or someone who looks like her has.
The city pulls her in, the Panorâmico opens its mouth, and she steps into a hollow echo — one that already knows her name.
The eye appears again. The spiral. Her double. The stained glass.
Something was waiting.
And the camera caught it.
But it also wrote something she doesn’t remember writing.
The red voice is back, repeating the same question:
How many times now?
But this time, it multiplies. The handwriting scatters across the page like a chorus in her head.
She tries to hold the thread, but it unravels.
By the last pages, the structure collapses: language fragments, questions loop.
The handwriting spirals around drawings of eyes, like a vortex pulling her inward.
Not a message.
A breakdown.
Or maybe… a breakthrough.

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