dores positivas

This is my last cry for help. But oh, not really.

This is hardly a cry for help. It is a cry, of that I’m almost certain, but it isn’t help I seek. It is also unlikely that it is the last, for the end will be broadcasted. Only you will know the secret channel, so take note in your cellphone: 555-666-888-33… I forgot. I’m making it up. I’m making you up. I’m making me up, I’m faking my life and I’m faking my death for a much wider audience. This is life, a theater. This is my premature third act, though the play definitely goes on. I’m just an annoying, sorry-for-himself character the writer is trying to get rid of, because audiences dislike him anyway. I’m getting rid of life as a solution for my issues. I’m giving me up as an actor for my role (and if you want it, send me a letter to:

Yuri C.
Hell, 69
God’s Cute Little Ass

).

I’m giving you up as the only one worth living for, because my director keeps telling me I’m saying the wrong lines. How could I disagree? When it comes to making things work, I’m a stranger in a faraway land. I don’t speak your language, and I’m starting to believe I don’t speak mine either. You’re my mirror, a reflex, a personification of unreachable desire and I’m sicker than fuck of pretending knowing my issues is having any hope of seeing them resolved.

If my retirement is my choice, then so be it. “There ain’t no point in moving on until you’ve got somewhere to go”. And if you’ve got a nice self-help sentence to go with that, shove it deep up your ass, fists and all, no lubricant. And then, perhaps, you’ll feel how I feel about life.

fim de uma história

O texto é de 2007, então... Um desconto, suponho. Ou não. Tanto faz.


----


Foi estranho, mas eu quase senti suas mãos quentes afagando minhas costas.
Sim, você, e quem mais poderia ser?

Larguei meu caderno e me segurei firme na cadeira, Coloquei os óculos em cima do caderno no meu colo e apaguei. O seu cheiro senti, e respirei fundo... Posso jurar que senti o seu gosto. Enxuguei meus olhos calvos usando a mão com a qual segurava os óculos e acordei. Ainda era eu sozinho no meio do nada, e me dirigi até a janela, com as mãos fracas de tanto empurrar a maldita cadeira para todos os lugares... Um vasto gramado com uma dúzia de cabeças de gado, um dia cinza como todos os outros, e o mar tão estático quanto tudo mais ao fundo. Pensei em como era feliz sem saber, e uma lágrima provou que meu coração ainda não estava necrosado como todo o resto do meu corpo mutilado pelos anos. Voltei para a modesta cozinha e notei a presença de uma xícara de café quente ao lado da pia, e então soube que você esteve por aqui.
Na fumaça, quase consegui lhe ver sorrindo.

“Obrigado pela visita”

dialogue

- I'm pregnant with your child.
- ... but that's impossible.
- Why is it impossible?
- I haven't slept with you.
- So?
- And you're a man.
- So are you.
- You can't get pregnant.
- And yet I am, it's a miracle.
- You are NOT pregnant.
- Yes I am. I am fat and I can feel you lingering inside me. What else could it be?

i talk to the wind

This afternoon, the bright sunny sky turned sepia. Black clouds in the shape of a troll invaded the blue heaven of the plain, and the wind carried sand through the grounds, making leaves fly in a beautiful, beautiful way. I felt a little jealous for the wind, I must say, for I'm pretty sure he touched you and the leaves on your cactus tree heart (that smell...). The leaves happily left my sight, but I did not. Where is the wind just about now? Please open up your windows.

Through it you might see a snowy ground and you will see what I cannot when I'm locked in my insomnia room trying to make sense of a landlocked shipwreck. Why must we lead so different and so similar lives? The globe is one and the wind unites us.

Are you afraid of dark corridors when you're alone at home? Why, you know there's nothing in the dark that wasn't there when it was bright. Just oh please, let my wind become ours when it crosses your dark hallway and hits you fulminantly. May all the papers on your desk fly along the sky we can't reach. Let the wind bring it back to me. Let us both look at the moon, now so hard to be seen (I had to go all the way to the backyard to find it, love), at the same time. I will wait for your message. Let us hear this voice that makes us cold and lonelier together for a while. Let us be innapropriately naked and uncomfortably numb in this invisible anti-carnival.

And what would you say if the wind lead me on a dance?

mental masturbation

It hurts, but who cares. It aches, but it won’t heal. It’s real, but it won’t happen. It’s there, but it’s not here.

There’s no hope, and neither there is patience. There’s music, but there’s also everything else. There is you, and then there’s no one.

It’s very strong, but it’ll die over time – like everything else.

There is happiness, but there is also reality.

reader meet author

Some things are beautiful in text, but you wouldn’t like living with these people, would you? Yes, yes… Some things are oh so beautiful in a 3 minute pop song, but you wouldn’t like to be feeling it, would you? Hm, I bet sometimes you would, am I right? I know I wouldn’t like to be a song that plays on the radio, that’s for sure.

Do you have a morbid curiosity with death? Why do you dress differently than what you are and feel? What are you learning? Why are you living? What are you doing to be a better person? Do you seek knowledge? How? Do you feel carpe diem? No, you don’t. Do you have interesting friends? Have you many? Are you worried? I am too.

Do you desire? How much are you willing to risk? Nothing? Well, do you REALLY want it? Is your will to win stronger than the fear to lose? Am I full of shit? Are you full of it too? Good, we’re not alone.

Do you believe in life after death? Life after love? Happiness during living? Happiness during love? (love, love, love). So sickening, isn’t it? Bleh.

What is music in your life? What do you want to do? Would you live abroad? Am I making the right questions? Do you feel we’re getting somewhere? Is this like therapy?

What are you thinking? Do you like what I’m doing? Are you tempted to close the window? Are you tempted to close your fly? Have you reached this far? Good, thank you, we’re making progress. Will you think about this? Does this touch you or mean anything 2 u? Should I end here?

sometimes

Sometimes, though not often at all, I think about how it would be if I had my arms around places, lips on skins out of my borders, hugs on people I’d like to get further with. And every time I think such thoughts, it never really occurs to me if it’s bad or good, it’s just alien.

Sometimes, though gladly not every hour, I feel sad. Because of the past and all those things that never happened during it, because of what the present seems to be (although it could be much worse), and most of all, the future. Ah, the future. Only the wisest aren’t afraid of it. Or perhaps they, most of all, are terrified by it. The world we live in is not a place for the wise, oh no. Happiness is not a place for the wise, either. Still, the world turns unhappily, though claiming and selling happiness while taking it at the same time – selling what we lost. Or never had.

It’s common knowledge that people today are quite close, but have never been further away. Still, I wouldn’t like living in a much different generation from my own. I like what’s been made easier, though it probably made us lazier, fatter and… unhappier. What happened to our innocence, so butchered by people like you and me? Every person is a potential weapon, and that hurts, doesn’t it? There’s no place for romanticism anymore in a world so crude and cruel. Is it, again, an alien concept to our generation – though still a very marketable idea, only way watered down, as any of my readers know by now.

Day by day I keep thinking how thought is the number one enemy of happiness. The most optimistic I can be is think that’s a stage, but I can’t be sure. What can we be sure of, anyway? Total subjectivism is sometimes a boredom, isn’t it? There are a number of life philosophies that seem to work in order to keep us living day by day. “Do your best and don’t worry”, “live one day after the other”. Well, sure they work. Have you had any idea why? Because you don’t have to think. If your life philosophy was “everything will always go wrong everyday, every time”, you wouldn’t have to think, really. And you would either kill yourself or live a very happy life, because that’s a “do your best, don’t worry and don’t expect anything out of people” with harsher words. It’s all in the way we say it, isn’t it? How else would James Blunt sell millions of copies singing songs about suicide? Well, well, anyways… Do you really believe that things will get better?

If an adult read this - none will – they would probably think it’s just some troubled teenager talking about, well, teenage troubles on their way to adulthood. Perhaps this is exactly what it is, only infantile. I don’t think I lived some things a teenager should’ve. The world is a party I was not invited to but crashed anyway, and am now crushingly bored by it. So far, I’ve only had my first love (and a lot after that) and my first day at the university. Not a first kiss, a first time, a first job. An ex-friend once said that it’s not that I had big problems, it’s just that… I didn’t have some things I should have.

As this blog is, in many ways, what I think about life in general, my 4 or 5 readers have probably noticed how I’ve been having a higher tolerance on rejection, because life must teach you SOMETHING, after all. But that doesn’t make one happy, either. No, no. Not so fast. Having a higher tolerance on rejection and loneliness comes from the idea that human relationships don’t work. Love ends quicker than friendships, but not before they tear us and people apart (duh). Perhaps this blog is me cooking the same dish everytime, only adding some little ingredients here and there, out of order, to see what it may become. As my psychologists said (yes, they both said it), no one is your ‘other half’, because we’re one complete person. That’s exactly why relationships don’t work. We don’t accept, we tolerate. And we only tolerate because we know intolerance and we have to struggle everyday with it. We’re either narcissists or we fake. I’m the first one, because I don’t want to play games. I want someone who is exactly like me (only better in what I don’t like about me) and therefore accept me as I am because it is who he is too, so I’d skip that part of having to struggle with things I’ll only get used to because I’d have completely lost faith in making things right (same way I stopped preaching vegetarianism because humans are insensible and disgusting, no use trying to argue; same way I sometimes feel neutral about being alone, because there’s not another possibility). This means I wouldn’t grow as a person, and this also means – now speaking directly – that I’ll spend my life alone. *sad orchestra* Theorizing the future is thinking. :)

Well, I think this is it for tonight.

“Sometimes, only sometimes, I question everything. And I’m the first to admit: if you catch me in a mood like this I can be tiring, even embarrassing. But sometimes, oh, only sometimes you must be… as embarrassing as me.”

single bilingual

Oh, darling. What silly games we play so we don’t ever get to the point. The pain we endure to keep it miserable.

A vida foge-me quando em ti atrevo-me em deslumbrantes e tão pouco prováveis divagações.

Isn’t it sad when our issues are not of a poetic nature? Nothing rhymes with work.

Para quem olho quando não estás? Quem olha para você quando eu não estou? Como me vês quando eu estou? Como está você quando eu não te vejo? Como me vês quando eu saio?

Last night you told me how happy you were. It made me so, so sad.

sketch for dawn

The streets are static except for the dog that sniffs through the trash. There are old newspapers being carried by the wind, sometimes flying beautifully one of two feet up the ground. There are empty cans around the house and I’m in between. Such a mirrored image of myself.

There’s a sketch of you in my goodbye note. You look pretty as usual and your eyes are starring at me – and I thought you’d said it was impolite to do such a thing. Actually, I took a lot of care in drawing your eyes because it’s the entrance to one’s soul, or so they say, and I have to feel you somehow. They’re still looking bad, since I could never really draw, but it’s the best I can and it even looks like how I imagine they are.

I call you (six times), your machine answers. It’s not you, it’s a woman. She says something, but I don’t understand, I wonder if you can me. She’s a little robotic and then vanishes in a beep. I record you a message 30 seconds long and many dollars’ worth getting it all out once and for all. But you won’t hear a word. You won’t pick it up, ever. Even if you do.

I’m not expecting your calls, I’m only hoping for them. When it comes down to it, you’re not real - but you’re more believable than I. I’m an uninteresting fiction, though bathed in reality. I look at the stopped clock and fantasize about you penetrating your cock in all my cavities, or in any other’s. My eyes should be convicted for rape, my hands for indecent exposure. That is how I got lost in virginity.

How I wanted to write myself a porno tale – such a silly thing to do – in which you’re doing all that I dreamed you would. I dropped the pen after writing

“you come close”

, because it seemed enough. Sometimes I look at it and drown myself in amazement. Love was never a four-letter word. I have tried it several times and I always lose at Hangman.

Saturday, September 12th 2009.

There is just so much of misfortune I’ve written for the last three or four years, it seems like I’ve dried out of ways to feel bad about life and myself. Life, however, is full of little tricks and always eager to show you how bad things can be. You can never have a strong enough heart, for love requires always way too much than you can give. Sometimes I think it’s like a virus: if you can take it, your body fights it before you can feel it. Not love, as you know just as well as I do.

I’ve decided to write tonight because I’ve been feeling really bad lately, I even cried in front of my mom today – I don’t recall that happening, ever. More than often, nowadays, I think of death. My self-inflicted one. Everyone knows I’ve been in a slow-motion suicide for the past three years. How can it be fair? No, I know it’s not. How do people live, then? Out of pure ignorance, as in… ignoring how hateful and disgusting society is? I’ve been told I take things too seriously and that’s why I won’t ever live a normal life. Is normal life this shallow and ignorant?

But who am I kidding… I’m ignorant too, for not thinking of African kids, or even homeless people from our owns towns. Right now, to be honest, I don't care about anything anymore, or anyone. I am part of what's disgusting. My troubles are also far too important and take me whole, I don't have the energy for anyone else, anymore. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it anymore. Everyone must ignore a lot of things in order to keep living. Tell me… How am I supposed to be positive when so very few of my experiences are positive?


“You can choose how you see things”. Ok, let’s try.

Wheeee! I’m so happy I’ve never had the chance to hold anybody I loved, I’m so happy I’m miserable, isn’t it yummy that I’m still available and have been for nearly 21 years? It’s absolutely fabulous that I hate nearly everything about me, physically, and would have a really hard time undressing in front of anyone. Let’s all have a big party celebrating my unwanted celibacy, broken dreams, helplessness about every single thing of life!!!

I feel better…





… not. Have you ever noticed that no one can do a thing when you’re sad?

Today I’ve had my 70th psychologist appointment. I’ve looked at notes from the second appointment and I see I’m pretty much even worse, because though I do know a LOT about myself now, I’ve been living with the same pain for years and it makes me more and more bitter everyday. I’m more pessimistic now because I know how things happen, and that there’s no way out except down. I’ve had three moments of REAL happiness in the past three years: when K. told me he was bi (how did that end up? Nowhere.) The In Flames concert. When I thought W. loved me (and you’d think you get wiser growing up). Wake up, moron! No one will love you as a lover. Maybe as a friend, tops. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re a pitiful excuse for a person. Who cares what you think? You suffocate people when you love them, you know that? It’s one of the reasons why no one will ever love you. And even if – what a surprise – they do…. You’re not naïve enough to think that would end your troubles, do you? (no, I don’t).

The funny thing is… I have already found the perfect man, the one I’ve been looking for all along (my projection, could it be, could it be?). But I’m, obviously, not good enough, in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong face and the wrong ways. It’ll never happen. Where are you, interesting men?


Marcos… do you remember me? You were my first love. Have you told anyone about your bisexual days?

Neto… would you stop and say ‘hi’ if we met somewhere? I will never love anyone the way I loved you, and a part of me will always, always desire for a hug. I have been sentenced to seek you in every men.

K., I would die if I met you. I couldn’t take life afterwads.

W., why don’t you break my heart at once? You’re the perfect man, and not because I breathe you every second… it’s because you have nearly everything I hold dear in (few) people. Maybe in another lifetime I will look at you, face to face, and cry endlessly not knowing why. When I die, my soul – if there is such a thing, which I doubt – will hopefully hover around and see you. I wish great happiness for you. And when I die, if there’s such a thing as staying on Earth for a while until I’m gone, I’d also like to stop for a minute and look at your future man – the luckiest by far, hoping he’ll treat you like I would. Hoping he’s loving you like I do. Hoping, the most, that he’s making you feel better about yourself, something I could never do.

monday

Why must beauty always come with an antidote for my desire? Why must we seldom see each other roaming these grey streets, never to touch, never to bump, never to know if ‘we’ could be ‘us’? Why must we be prisioners of not knowing, strangers of odd starings? And yet you willingly undress for me, in the most vulgar way – for we know it’ll be quick, no matter how slow we walk. Until one day we’ll crash. The impact will be so strong, it’ll shatter our ground, it’ll explode our existence. We might even say “sorry”, and then walk away. Forever changed.

?

It’s such a shame, isn’t it?
That there’s nothing to be done
That we don’t actually fit in anywhere
And that nothing is just right for us

I’m aware it’s disappointing
That you and I are so far we can’t reach
Yet we spend endless nights wondering
What ever happened to the joy we never had

This never-experienced contentment of our part, dear
Is a mere inconvenience this lifestyle displays
I’ve been told (by myself), pumpkin pie,
That you can either be happy or be interesting

Have I told you I’m sorry?
For nothing, really, but it always feels
I’m missing something and that fits
I didn’t mean to fill the silence, it sometimes happens…

I can’t say I’m comfortable with this shallow smile
You sometimes put on my face, for I know it lies
It shouldn’t really be a smile at all, it comes out wrong
Yet, sometimes, we all must fake it

You know me by now, and I surely do
I’ve sat in the dark too often, and I could see you
I’m not romantic anymore, man, I’m horny
And we’re still making love when you can’t see me

I’ve tried to turn on the lights, but the sight is just awful
I don’t know who you are, who I’m writing to
What I mean and who I’m supposed to be
But I’m here, darling

Precisely where I can’t be found
Between this keyboard and
A bed that could easily shelter another
- although, as time has proven, it won’t

I’m in the exact place where we can’t ever meet
Because neither of us would step out of our own little worlds
And in much too comfort by the idea that
We will never. ever. be.

Breathing is tiring and
Life is never kind, we know
What are we waiting for?
I'm waiting for you

confession #2

It’s not odd how everything comes down to this depth sometimes, given my choices and the way I refuse to change – my psychologist would say I have no desire to change yet. An acquaintance of mine told me, some weeks ago, he knows me since 2006 and I’ve stuck in time. Maybe they’re right, but what else am I waiting to happen before I can change? Is this who I am? Maybe I’m far too anxious to know where my life is going to get – if anywhere. To be quite honest, I’m so terminally lonely no matter what, I need someone so badly. But not anyone… I’m a beggar who refuses things that are given to him. Does this make me even more unworthy and ridiculous? Who am I to be picky? Tonight there is a bright night outside, and it feels like the sun is going to come out anytime, which just makes me feel even worse. You know how I hate the dawn, don’t you? Nevermind.
I’m in love, breathing and needing desperately (but, as he once said “what don’t you need desperately?”) a finnish autist. If this was a sitcom, this would be where the fake audience would laugh. Thing is, this is no sitcom. This is an unpopular maudlin story. The show isn’t going to end anytime soon, no one’s getting paid to perform (they’d be paying not to). My psychologist and pretty much all of the people who have been able to put up with me, this depressive and depressing creature, say that the theory that I’m always falling in love with people from different continents means that I’m afraid of my sexuality. Maybe they don’t know (because, after all, no one can walk in anyone’s shoes) how much I’ve tried with people who lived quite close to me. Was I afraid of my sexuality back then? Probably much more than I am now. How is this my fault?
I know he probably can’t express his feeling, though he tries his best, but everything hurts. I probably see him as my reflection, as my soulmate, as someone who’s basically me (minus the autism I actually wished I had – yes, you should be thinking I’m stupid – so that I could actually put a name on what’s wrong with me and hide like a coward behind it). By saving him – and I’d give so much for it –, I’d see there’s salvation for me too. The idea that we could save each other, though, is unlikely. I wish he could find a girlfriend (yes, a girlfriend, so society wouldn’t hurt him), and every single one of my friends could find their love too, somewhere. There just seems to be no way out for me. And every single time I have an erotic dream (yes, absolutely everytime), someone always walks in before I can actually do anything. Not even in dreams do I get the chance.
Whenever I go out, it’s “How Soon is Now” all over again, you know? It’s not like it hasn’t been done or tried. Plus I keep thinking how better is it back at home, with my music and my stuff. Fuck, man, fuck… I feel like I know all there is to know about me, plus the fact that there isn’t a fucking thing to be done. Just wait. And wait. With no guarantee (yes, life has no guarantees, thanks for warning me). If I could just hug W and K for a while. Maybe see Neto again, too, while he was passing through the same street I was. Hey, as long as I’m asking for things that won’t happen in my platonic relationship, imaginary, fucked up, emotionally shattered and hopeless world, I can have three wishes. None of these things will happen anyway. This genius has fled, the lamp is broken to pieces.
And I feel like I should be happy by being a middle class son. I can buy most things I want. If I killed myself, people would say “why did he do that? He had EVERYTHING”. Everything? If this is everything, I’m not very curious to see how people can live with less. There’s emptiness all around. Most people would kill to be in my position, with the wonderful parents I have, nice family and some loyal friends. I don’t deserve any of these, behaving the way I do. And what makes me the most angry is that, after all this emotional vomit, some people would just call me juvenile. “Grow up, be a man and close your mealy mouth”, right? There are people in much worse condition than you. Why does it make me angry? Because it’s true. I’m a child and everything must turn my way otherwise I get angry or sad. Please vomit.
I’m so sick of me, also. Sick of not finding a way out. Sick of walking my path to my 21st birthday and never having had anyone ever. Sick of not knowing where I fit in, professionally. There’s no hope, just nothing to do. “The story is old, I know, but it goes on”. And there’s nothing no one can say about it, except:
- I hope things get better.
- :(
- Damn, Yu…
- …
And I don’t know how long I can take this. These same problems over and over again. No one can help me with words. Will anything I deeply need ever be granted to someone like me? I’m not a bad person, I swear… I’m just terminally hopeless.

fucking

Lovers are today riding the streets in fancy cars they are
Going their ways through dark alleys and shades some of them
Pregnant and some of them violently
Beaten down scattered apart seems as if they

Two lovers think about
Each other and drink
Something they have but
They will not meet so they
Just look at nothing
Ness and pretend that they
Are as to be

Don’t cry for them
Oh but why should you be
Cause no one really
Cares about other’s
Feeling and how
Could they really
Be honest shall
We never will
Know

pictures of you

I’d just like to hug you
For so long
We’d never let go
And never be apart

Ever
Again.

seems so long ago, nancy

The song plays, and it reminds me of you. It was our song of something that never came to be.
I wrote you a verse, probably many. You rejected me, I know not now. Who are you, my sweetest and most unlikely dream? Have I ever told you that you’re my second place? Many ran, dear (away from me), so you need not feel intimidated. How do I even see you? I admit I still fantasize about you. Do you recall last year?
- I’ll never talk about it again, I promise. –
But it was the sweetest taste I’ve ever had, from anyone.

Tomorrow will mark the first anniversary since the last time you told me you loved me (yes, it’s true). Such a long year.

……..

An hour later, I feel scared. As if something was about to happen, as I listen to something entirely-within-me-now. The outside shadows can be quite scary, I guess. It is 3 am now, and I was just thinking on how objects let me look at them and touch them – and how much force they must apply on theirselves to keep their shape. They’re interesting.
Rain falls, it’s that sound they make when they break. What will be the sound of my death? Boom, oh, thump?
Woosh.

Don’t be scared, it’s just the wind. For now.

confissão com nomes censurados

Domingo – segunda: outra discussão (que nunca leva a nada) sobre vegetarianismo com E*. Sinto nojo e raiva quando ele fala que somos inteligentes e os animais não. Que ele gosta de carne e não pretende parar de comer. Expõe que sou infantil, teimoso, cabeça-dura. Eu sei de tudo isso. Sei que quero que as pessoas sejam o que eu quero e continuo querendo, o que me fará ficar só, ou sem alguns. E eu talvez volte atrás se eles forem embora, porque tudo (principalmente em mim) carrega a negação, o oposto do que eu fiz, a outra escolha que eu poderia ter tomado.
Suicídio? Mas deixar de existir me ajudaria como? Não teria mais como chamar atenção de ninguém – será que tudo se resume a isso? Saio da internet dizendo que quero me machucar. Não sei se paro de discutir e deixo ele ‘ganhar’ a discussão. Os argumentos existem, mas talvez eu não os tenha. E ele expõe minhas incoerências (eu não me importo com a p* dele por eu também ser? Só me importo com o que me toca, e o que toca meu ídolo, em quem me espelho?). Isso não é surpresa, eu vejo e sei tudo isso, mas tento adotar pra mim como se fosse verdade.
Parece que me conheço demais, não sei se é bom ou não, não sei não sei não sei e nunca sei o que fazer. Nada é solução. Nem morrer e deixar tudo, nem viver e continuar assim porque não vou mudar, sou bom demais assim como sou e quero que sejam, mas tenho um corpo horrível, uma psique em colapso, um curto-circuito total. L* perde a virgindade e eu falo que sexo não é pra mim. Parte é vergonha do meu corpo, parte é invejinha infantil, desdenhar o que o outro amiguinho tem. Eu sei, sempre sei. Por isso já pensei em sair da terapia, pois minhas terapeutas também sabem, e no início é sempre mais legal, interessante, de descoberta. Mas assim eu vou sempre fugir, mas prefiro ficar. Ou não? Pra onde ir? Eu não sei. Ao passo que sei de tudo, não sei de nada. Mas não quero ouvir que é assim que as coisas são. Não quero ouvir NADA. MS eu preciso. Preciso sair disso, mas não quero. Não pergunte. Mas então por que terapia? Remédios me ajudariam?
Sei, ou aprendi, que o amor platônico é uma distração pra sexualidade não se concretizar. Mas acabo de passar uma hora e meia sentado num banheiro ao silêncio e luzes apagadas pensando em conhecer o K*. Eu quase choro em imaginar a cena. Uma praça grande, eu na frente e meus pais atrás. Eu o avisto, belo sobre aqueles paralelepípedos e várias pessoas: ‘oh my god, K*?’. E eu o abraço. Mas isso é TÃO improvável, eu penso. E se – supondo que ele quisesse e eu tivesse a coragem de pedir, duas grandes barreiras – fôssemos ter algo sexual: onde? Não seria possível. Eu me imagino passando um dia com ele em Varsóvia enquanto meus pais fazem outras coisas, mas transaríamos em um quarto de hotel? Não, eles chegariam, eu sei. Sim, chego a pensar nisso.
Com W* seria mais fácil. Iríamos a Helsinki e dali pra cidade dele, se ele quisesse me ver. Mas para ter algo sexual com W*, seriam MESES de gradualmente ir intensificando afeto e carícias até chegar lá, se é que seria possível sendo ele autista e eu um “nota 6”, segundo ele. Preciso emagrecer pra ver o K*. “Yuri, mas isso deve ser pra você”. Eu sei, eu sei.
Ao mesmo tempo que sinto a impossibilidade, sinto esperança. Meu pai vai receber um último dinheiro de herança e poderíamos viajar. Sonhos, sonhos. Não posso perder contato com K*. Quanta idiotice. E quanto encontrar-me com E* amanhã, e penso em ler isso pra ele, estarei também entre querer um abraço dele – e algo mais que não possa ser dado – e não pedir por timidez, decências, princípios, diabo a quatro. Entre sentir nojo e intolerância e sentir amizade. Entre ser sociável e fechar a bolha, o ovo à vácuo, com Super Bonder.
“Um homem adulto precisa lidar com isso”. Será que vai chegar um momento TÃO ABSOLUTAMENTE INSUSTENTÁVEL que “ou vai ou racha” e terei que mudar? Até imagino: mudo por uma semana e depois volta. Imagina se eu namoro, nunca será bom o bastante. Principalmente com o passar do tempo e o que uma vez era desejo ser rotina, às vezes até obrigação. E eu não tenho corpo nem perfil psicológico pra ter várias relações de prazer com pessoas que me são atraentes. E é isso que quero pra mim? Pra onde tudo isso leva? “Isso é normal na sua idade, são hormônios, crise existencial” etc. Não digam isso.
Apesar de eu querer nomear, eu não quero que me entendam. Quero ter o inominável, algo sério que justifique essa existência cheia de conflitos que seria louvável em um livro de Filosofia (“só sei que nada sei”), mas que é frequentemente insustentável na realidade. O homem é insatisfeito por natureza, dizem. E precisamos sempre de algo novo, um objeto a procurar. Mas NÃO TENTEM dazer com que o que eu sinto soe normal, passageiro, algo por que todos passam. NÃO PODE. Senão todos estariam em colapso.
O que é solução pra mim se nem a vida nem a morte me agradam? O que me agrada, uma vida de prazer? Mas eu cansaria dela, eu sei. Por que isso não tem saída, nem resposta? Preciso de uma camisa de força? Digam que sou louco, que tenho uma doença de nome grande pra que eu possa respirar aliviado e tomar a medicação. É só dúvida, e além dessas dúvidas as respostas que as pessoas dão, o ranço de auto-ajuda. O que me ajudaria, o que me mudaria? Nada. Mas ainda assim, somos diferentes a cada segundo. Sim, dualidades. EU SEI. Mas o que faço com isso, como faço isso sumir? Quem vai entrar na minha cabeça – substância, gente ou projétil – e organizar minhas idéias? Pra onde vou? Quem sou? O que devo ser? Que caminho seguir? Perguntas normais que todos fazem, você diz. No que minha reação difere da dos outros, então? Porque não vejo saída.
É melhor eu parar de escrever. 20 pras 4 da manhã, amanhã preciso acordar, e acordarei melhor. Mas tudo isso está plantado e sempre vai me perseguir, o que quer que eu faça.

i don't want you.

It’s four in the morning
But still the night is dark
I pray I won’t see daylight
Before the sunset

It’s all so quiet
And I stand alone proudly
Watching the cars drift
Farther than they’ve ever been

I guess I should apologize
For not caring…
But I don’t care

There’s just so much going on
In this shining silence
Looking through these pages
Of blank darkness

These people are mad, I tell you
The lengths they’ll go,
How much they’ll fight.
What for?

There is merely a brief memory
Of what I’d just forgotten

I don’t hear you anymore,
Now that I’m numb
Empty spaces are filled with me
As I, myself, pour all over imploding

It’s quite late, in fact
To act like I’m a soldier
A believer, a member
A fucking citizen

Let me vanish

"that's us".

I know, babe...


There are no calls for the long-distance brokenhearts
24 pictures a second can't make them touch
A 4-hour conversation won't make them closer
Because there's nothing to be read when it all shuts down

And when the nights are long and dry
They'll always find a way to wet their spirits somehow
Either with a cold drink or a salty flavour
That heals most wounds for a second or two

If they close their eyes, sure it's dark
Sure it's half past heaven
Safe and together in this
Terminal loneliness they can't help

For they're long distance callers
Long-distance dreamers
Who will fail, as time will show
As most stories have told

Against all odds, or most of them
They'll jump a bridge, I'm sure they can
For they can't be farther
These long-distance rejects

They will touch, if there's a God
They'll kiss, if He's kind
But they'll die because He's not.

numb

The drunk and the sane
Have crossed paths once again
One cannot say there is sanity left
Now that they’ve left the glasses, empty

A soft hand slides
Perhaps too far
And there will be a price to pay
When tomorrow takes notice

Of today’s mistakes
There will be the smell
Of sweat and booze
And sore, syrupy lips

There is one quiet man
On another table, who sadly says:
I’m sorry, but there was never a way
To welcome any of you into my arms

Party’s over too soon
For those who never celebrate
The celibate cries of a terrible virginity
Still echo between the beats

XDDDD rs lol hahaha ;)) ... /

The birds are singing a lovely sound of silence and through the Wind it is carried on. The girls are playing and there’s happiness tattooed on their innocent faces. There are scars in the young gentleman, now terminally aware.

The hand of Jesus is felt somewhere between his legs, the dirty little bastard had it coming for being so damn good. Yum.

Are leaves suicidal?
Sad thought: if I was stronger, would I be able to kill myself?
Such a bummer. :(



But there’s hope and there’s colour. Colour oh so blue.

I don’t want to be here, mommy.



Santa Claus makes us happy, the Easter Bunny makes us laugh. There’s the carnival, there’s the birthday and all the 364 unbirthdays. There’s a noise that won’t let us sleep and it’s making me mad wondering how will it feel when I blow his fucking head off and his JUICY BRAINS are deliciously yummy on the floor along with my tasty meats, fried, thank you. I’m a happy carnivore. :)

LIFE IS GOOD!

26 de abril

Que cheiro tem o ar que respiras? Terá o cheiro da madrugada, frio e penetrante?
Ou talvez o doce cheiro da chuva...

Que textura tem sua pele? Parece-me, aqui de longe, tão macia, tão fria e branca.
Diga-me como é.

As coisas que você toca ficam com seu cheiro? Parece bobo, mas não é,
Porque nem me tocaste e já posso sentir.

Seus cigarros ficam molhados na ponta? Você corre quando chove? Que número você calça?
Ei, eu queria saber...

Na verdade... Eu só queria te perguntar:
E se eu fosse outra pessoa? Você responderia?

Desculpa o incômodo, mas eu também preciso perguntar...
Quando eu lhe encontrar, você vai conseguir me ver?

E se eu te visse dormindo, você acordaria?
Se eu, carinhosamente, tocasse no seu braço...
Você se assustaria?
É que... eu não quero.

Você conseguiria me reconhecer na multidão? Pois eu consigo te ver no breu...

Se você chegasse mais perto, doeria muito? É que... eu queria sentir.

click

- Se eu soubesse como percorrer essa estrada, eu não estaria mais aqui. Você não sabe como é ruim não conseguir terminar uma frase porque a dor é tanta que, inundando o coração, aloja-se nos pulmões e me prejudica a respiração. Você acha que sabe o que é agonizar? Não me acostumei a nada disso, e o tempo não faz esquecer, faz alargar as feridas. O vento não leva as mágoas, deixa-me mais frio e pálido. A morte toca meu corpo, e acaricia-me como eu gostaria que você fizesse. Não sei se conseguirei resistir por muito tempo. Se eu me escondo atrás das palavras, é só porque nada mais sobrou. Como deveria interpretar seu silêncio? Você entende essa culpa de tudo? Esse mundo que desaba? Eu já construí meu mundo ao teu redor, não posso mais fazer nada. Se você for embora, me leva contigo ou me leva junto. Mas ainda assim, só há separação e uma distância sempre crescente. Eu ouço nossas músicas, sim. As músicas que eu doei a você. É como eu posso te sentir mais perto. Costumava achar que depois de tantas vezes, essa seria mais fácil. Nunca é. Cada um com seus problemas, e só. É triste como nada nem ninguém é suficiente, e eu jamais conseguiria te fazer feliz, ou me fazer feliz. O que me resta, querido? Eu estou em um precipício, não posso seguir em frente. Eu não tenho por onde crescer. Só precisaria de sua estrela por um dia para, enfim, poder voar. Eu não tenho muito a perder, queria que os outros também não tivessem. É o que me prende. Eu conheço sua dor, mas elas são, como diria o poeta, apenas o farelo que eu deixei pra trás. Será que você pode me ouvir? Eu lhe amo.

Yuri coloca o telefone na tomada.

conversa em estrofes

seria bonito se não fosse verdade. não é meu. é dele.

Hello, how are you?
I hope you’re doing fine
I’m writing to say
I never really loved you.

I’m sorry I hurt you
But I’m not, really
It’s your fault
If you’re broken

Have you forgotten me?
I was hoping you had.
I know these songs,
They’re ours…

Grow up, face up!
I’m gone.
Are you still in there?
Because I’m not.