?

Why must this come with so many ‘sorries’ and so much sorrow? And what is ‘it’ anyway?

Have I ever loved, or has this all been obsession? And who can tell me that it is not love? Who can tell me what love is? Who can be arrogant enough to even dare?

Is it worth changing yourself for the world, knowing the world won’t change for you? Is living all by yourself an option? (is happiness an option?)

Can you really get used to desperation?

Is the world so fucking sick you can’t be yourself? Why are human beings so obsessed with making sense, growing and being happy – or in search of happiness? Why can’t I be in search of something else?

Why talk, at all, about your life, unless your means are an end in themselves? Why cry on your shoulders if you will get wet and I will keep sad? (or can sorrow de diluted in water – or cloth?)

Why does anyone read this, anyway? How can people be interested with what goes on in my head? (was that self-pity?) And why has every single sentence so far been a question if I’m so sure of my doubts?

Now let’s take a moment to think these questions if they mean anything to you, well do they? (“see how I went all the way through the end, like I care?” / “oh, but I do”)

Is lie better than the truth? So: is a good liar better than a bad honest person? Is there ‘sin’, at all? (why do people fake orgasm, friendship, love?)

Can a past be forgiven? Can a future be forgiven?

Can you forgive yourself for the person you are?

Are you satisfied (I bet you are, now – but how can you if when you look around it’s all shit, hopelessness, despair, death, hypocrisy, stealing, corruption, hunger, savageness, evil, low payment, no future at all, more people being born, global warming, people cooling, getting sicker, spreading viruses, noises invading our houses, dogs waking us up at night, people fucking up our lives, bad people prospering over good people; women, negroes and homosexuals being beat, raped and killed; kids, teens and adults being exposed to ignorance and believing it, contributing for a future of absolute fucking hell)? How can you be glad you’re happy? Aren’t you fucking ashamed? Have you no. fucking. shame of laughing? What reason have you? Have you got someone? Oh yeah, until when? Don’t you know you’ll die all alone?

Or can you just close your eyes to all the world and pretend it’s all going pretty-well? Oh, isn’t it marvelous? Isn’t it just FABULOUS?

They said ignorance is bliss, right, but is it really? I bet you think so, don’t you?

Oh, why live in this world? And yet they say it’s you that’s wrong, it’s you who must change, it’s you who must move on – but move on where? Where ARE we going other than downhill to our graves? Why pretend this is happy? Why pretend this is worth it if you’ll lose it all?

Should we be thankful for what we have? Yes, or so I’ve been told – but should we be thankful for what we don’t, should we just forget?

Is it better to not be loved for who you are or to be loved for someone you are not? What’s the difference if YOU are not loved either way? Is there an essence? And is my essence what I think it is?

How can pain be the easiest if it’s the hardest? How can this all be juvenile if a child is happy (because she doesn’t know how the world works)? And I still don’t know how it works, but the more I find out, the worse it gets, do you feel it too? Does this bring us together or further apart?

Should we give up on people who are not ‘useful’? What’s the use of something useful? Should we throw out those we ‘love’ because they’re not good? Is there love, at all? Is there love other than desire for flesh or fear to be alone? Am I shallow? Does that make you deep?

Does this make you sick? Do you think I’m hopeless? Do you think you should still hold your head high instead of hanging yourself now? Aren’t all of us who think alive because we’re afraid there isn’t anything else? What’s the exact point where nothing is better than anything possible, and do we know it when the moment comes?

If you hurt your friends being yourself, then do you really have friends or just people who want you to be someone else? Why can’t you be whatever and still sigh? Is being pathetic worse than being empty? Would you rather be a good kisser or a good writer?

What is the meaning of hope except for illusion? Why is this man most of us place our trust upon (though not me) pissing, shitting and coming all over us every single day? Are the insane wiser? Would you kill for food? Would you kill for thought? Do you live for what’s your basic needs? Would you leave if nothing else fulfills? Are you fooling yourself things will go right?

Does love have a distance? Can hearts easily be fooled? Can words so easily be believed? Can people get easily depressed?

Can you stop this all?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…

i still mantain

As I lay here and I – a-lone-r – wonder why or what you’ll be where you are. Wonder how and see – though it’s only (you) and me.

Ponder reasons for the silence, longer seasons for the grievance, taller buildings shall relieve this, other loves – I can’t relive this.

Take me to where I’m trying to go, let me know if you will ever or, if you won’t, don’t let me be here while you are there – the distance is… as far as Is can see.

(if this is final don’t be shy, no – turn the page, but be kind rewind)

This is the sanctuary where we meet every night when the stars are bright and with them only I shine – though in a perfect solitude and unforgivable darkness. Sounds and images fail to reproduce what only my mind tries to seduce.

This is where you fertilize my brainstorm with your life juice. This is where the crowd vomits. Remember me?

Why should I make sense just like everything else? And yet I do. Yes, I’m a public – no – pedophile. If I had sex with dead animals, though, it wouldn’t be a crime. I could fuck them while you ate them. Stupid us.

What have the years told you? Do you go in circles and realize that, unfortunately, it all comes to this? Why bother, then? Let us write suicide (news)letters and let you know how we’re coping with pain.

Pay me a ticket to Dreamland only you can afford. Just open your legs and let me baptize you with (un)holy saliva.

Everybody’s got someone. I have your absence. I’m the most happiest (!) man alive.
Come.
Coma.

little man being erased

This is my room, and this is my bed. These are the sheets. If I wasn't so fat, my mattress would be brand-new. It never carries more than my weight.
These are my things, these are the books I've read, these are the books I won't. These are my records, and this is my favourite (la-da-da).
This is a box of things that are broken. That, in there, is my heart.
The thing you hear is a dog barking. This stain will soon be cleaned. This is my door, it's closed now.
This is your picture. I drew a heart next to your face and autographed your name on it. I had to add a line crossing the heart later.
This is my corpse, it's still hot. Those are my unkissed lips, and this is my disgusting body. I should've placed a plastic bag over me whole, I shouldn't be allowed to be seen like this. I shouldn't be allowed to be this ugly. People will think I'm bald. They're wrong. This is just a bad hair day.
This is just a bad day, tomorrow will be a good one. You will eat your lunch while planning your daily schedule, your teacher will be happy because he got some pussy last night, mom and dad will be crying (and that's sad), but they can always turn my room into a library. Or a museum in my memory. Or an arcade with fun games for african children who are dying of starvation right now. I hope they find me tasty. I'm just afraid there won't be much left, cutting off the fat and the rotten. I hope I don't bleed too much in your mouth while you're chewing, that would be boring. If I taste bad, you can always call the cops. They're not too picky.
I have sent you my soul, it will arrive next month - international shipping is very expensive, you know. Here's a picture of me smiling.
No, I was lying. It's just me, laying. Close the door again, now. Don't wake me up.
You can't.

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?