" It’s that I shall pass because of the rhythm into its paroxysm—I shall pass to the other side of life. How can I tell you this? It’s terrible and threatens me. I feel that I can no longer stop
and I’m scared. I try to distract myself from the fear. But the real hammering stopped long ago: I’m being the incessant hammering in me. From which I must free myself. But I can’t: the other side of me calls me.
As if ripping from the depths of the earth the knotted roots of a rare tree, that’s how I write to you, and those roots as if they were powerful tentacles like voluminous naked bodies of strong women entwined by serpents and by carnal desires for fulfilment, and all this is the prayer of a black mass, and a creeping plea for amen: because the bad is unprotected and needs the approval of God: that is creation.
Could I have gone without feeling it to the other side? The other side is a
throbbingly hellish life. But there is the transfiguration of my terror:
so I give myself over to a heavy life all in symbols heavy as ripe fruits. I choose mistaken resemblances but that drag me through the tangle. A trace memory of the common sense of my past keeps me brushing against this side here. Help me because something is coming toward me and laughing at me. Quick, save. "

― Clarice Lispector , Água Viva