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.