I'm wise now
I've grown so much
I've grown past hope
I don't expect from people
Anything but less they could
Amazed at how
Little there is in people
There wasn't before them
It's strange, somehow
When you realize
There's nothing outisde your walls
I've looked at pages
And scribbled words
I've been to the other side of the world
(in a manner of speaking)
I've met people I shouldn't
And done things I don't
I've believed in love at first sight
Before I knew hard-ons
I fell for the perfect guy
And felt like the perfect fool
I've been naked in the dark
Both alone and otherwise
But I've never been intimate
With someone I am not
Found my hero just minutes before
I found out life wasn't a movie
I wrote a book on it
But I couldn't afford it
Now you can get it for free
Somewhere I'm not allowed in
sábado, 8 de janeiro de 2011
terça-feira, 3 de agosto de 2010
minhas entranhas expostas
Às vezes parece que quase nada me afasta do suicídio, mas ao mesmo tempo isso parece muito distante, porque eu nunca nem ao menos tentei me matar. Não sei dizer o que me separa de tentar. Não é a fé em melhora da situação, pois acredito que de tempos em tempos eu chegue nesse desespero. Todos os meus sonhos (e que sonhos? as paixões platônicas?) são ridiculamente improváveis, e por momento algum considero a possibilidade de acontecerem, e não sei se faria grandes esforços para tal, como mudar toda a minha vida para conseguir sucesso em uma carreira que despertasse o interesse de empresas européias. Tudo parece – e é – muito longe, distante de mim, inatingível. Isso faz-me questionar o meu papel na minha sexualidade. Não consigo me imaginar em uma transa com nenhum desses garotos, apenas chorando maravilhado na frente deles. Ao, depois de alguma insistência, o ** me falar que o pênis dele mede **cm, essa informação que aguardo há dois anos aproximadamente torna-se maior do que a minha vida inteira. Eu pensei que a informação me deixaria feliz, mas o que ela fez foi afirmar minha única dúvida em relação a ele, a única parte que eu não via dele em foto é, na verdade, MUITO satisfatória. E isso nem é sobre tamanho, por mais que, sim, ele falar ** seja mais potente do que ele falar 10. Eu quero... moldar um pênis igual ao dele. Isso é sobre ele... possuir esse membro viril que eu desejo, de que quero cuidar, abraçar, beijar, mimar. Se a tal “namorada” existiu, não sei se é relevante ou não... Mas só o fato de ser fisicamente possível que o ** possa ficar excitado e ter uma ereção é, essa obviedade, maior do que a minha vida inteira... e não me serve de nada. Nunca serei eu. Por que eu vivo? Sei que a resposta deveria ser “vivo pra mim”, mas o que tenho eu que me segura? No fundo, talvez, seja a vontade de sentir mais dor, que é só o que ficou da sexualidade, a única maneira experienciável. Porque as canções que mais me tocam são as que falam desse algo miserável. Eu quero ler para entender o mundo, sim, mas aparentemente para justificar minha misantropia. Poderíamos pensar “como seria diferente se...”, mas isso não nos leva a lugar algum, tampouco. O que eu espero da vida? Vou estudar, passar por algumas etapas e virar professor, teoricamente. E? Isso é pra cumprir tabela, para “fazer algo”, já que esperam isso de mim meus pais, pessoas próximas, cobro eu mesmo isso para não ser um total sanguessuga, como suporia meu irmão. Eu preciso estar indo, logo, a algum lugar. Nada disso, acho, me vem acoplado à idéia de “felicidade”. Em nenhum momento dessa minha visão do que a vida será eu me vejo “com alguém” (tentando aqui não fazer uma igualdade entre felicidade e estar com alguém). E talvez se meus sonhos se realizassem eu descobriria algo que poderia ser, por exemplo, que eu só tenho interesse no que não posso ter. Se isso é ‘normal’, então em mim isso deve estar em um estágio doentio. Será que todo mundo dói assim? Nunca vai se sentir a dor do outro. Talvez só me entenda quem não agüentou e desistiu... mas eu também não cheguei nesse ponto. Acho que nunca existe fundo do poço, pois quando se chega nele você não consegue subir, está muito além de você, e não interessa o que livros de auto-ajuda vão dizer. A gente só vai se surpreendendo em como o poço é mais fundo do que pensávamos, atingindo novos (sub)níveis e quebrando nossos próprios recordes. Mas nunca é “o fundo do poço”, porque sempre se pode piorar.
Irrita-me que sempre que não se está bem ou é, vá saber, luto normal/reação normal, ou, se passar disso, uma infantilidade, inabilidade em lidar com a situação. Irrita-me que eu pense que isso é estar querendo chamar atenção e que isso é – ta-dah – infantilidade. É só isso? Então as coisas realmente não têm solução, o negócio é apenas crescer, virar homem e parar de choramingar, porque o mundo não vai mudar. Você precisa lutar. A vida não é fácil mesmo. E todos os clichês que aparentam ser verdade. Então pra quê continuar? Pra aprender a engolir o choro sem falar nada porque é isso que uma pessoa adulta faz ou deveria fazer? Ah, abandona-se os prazeres infantis, mas tem-se o sexo, por exemplo. Prazeres da vida adulta. E se não tiver? E se você nunca encontrar, nunca entrar em contato com alguém que te maravilhe e a vida ficar encharcada todos os dias de rotina, monotonia e mediocridade? Eu espero muito da vida? Não sei, será? Não sei nem o que espero, estou me questionando. Sou um bebê chorão? Parece que sim, e se isso me irrita, segundo a ‘maravilhosa Psicologia’, tudo indica que é mesmo algo que passa perto de mim, pois me incomoda. O que faço com isso? Cresço e aprendo a tomar no cu sem reclamar? E* me disse que eu deveria pagar por sexo, se isso não me mudasse como pessoa em um mês, que eu me matasse mesmo. Ele não tem mais o que dizer, e eu também acho que não exista o que dizer. Dificilmente eu encontraria alguém que me agradaria, e eu não teria como pagar por sexo (e aqui vão outras palavras-chave da vida adulta como dinheiro e emprego, e então eu só admiro, de longe e perto demais, como eu sou pequeno e ridículo). No mais, rebaixar-me a ponto de pagar para ser penetrado por alguém que não me atrai seria talvez o estupro e o fim de tudo que ainda me mantém em pé à procura do que não se acha, esse amor romântico e doentio. Seria o mesmo que, e o passo anterior ao, suicídio. Às vezes, entretanto, penso que só conseguiria me relacionar com alguém dessa forma (pessoa-objeto), provavelmente também de uma forma fetichizada, pois por experiência própria sou levado a crer que quanto mais tempo sem sexo, mais “perversão”, mais fetiches surgem. Mais doentio fica. E quem se prestaria a esse papel senão por dinheiro? Como fica uma pessoa que só consegue pagando? Igual, melhor ou pior que uma pessoa que sempre quer mas nunca consegue?
Não acho que pensar em suicídio venha necessariamente de baixa auto-estima. Você pode se achar muito melhor do que 99% das pessoas, como eu acho (mas ainda assim refiro a mim como pequeno e ridículo, huh?), a ponto de continuar não valer a pena. Coisas como “tenha fé que eu tenho certeza que um dia você vai encontrar alguém” não me servem de nada, pois sabe-se muito bem que pode ser, sim, que NUNCA dê certo. E onde estará, aí, a justiça que não há? Em ‘outra vida’? E se eu não tenho mais fé é porque eu quero tudo agora e, logo, sou uma criança mimada? Voltamos à mesma. Pra onde isso tudo leva? O que se ganha em tudo que se perde? Experiência? Experiência pra quê? Para cada vez mais conseguir experiência com mais suor? E, enquanto isso, meu período de seis meses de tratamento com o antidepressivo acabou, e estou “livre para reduzir a dosagem até parar”. Que delícia, não?
Se palavras de esperança não dão esperança alguma, explicar minhas infantilidades só me diminui, me irrita e me fecha mais ainda – e potencialmente – o que me sobra? Porque acontecer o que desejo, isso sabe-se que não ocorrerá. Querer algo mais possível? Dar uma chance? Dizer sim às maravilhosas oportunidades que a vida lhe dá? Cadê a margarina desse comercial? Falta desejo meu de mudança? Chegará um momento de “ou vai ou racha” em que ou eu morro ou eu mudo e tudo isso faz parte do processo de crescimento que tanto me amedronta? Então todo mundo passa por exatamente isso por que estou passando? Não? Ah, mas eu quero ter controle da situação, dominar, essa infantilidade toda, essa coisa psicologicamente capenga que eu tenho que ajustar. Aham, e eu faço o quê com isso? Ser um homem, engolir o choro, crescer e calar a boca? Você percebe como não sobra NADA? “E só o acaso estende os braços a quem procura abrigo e proteção”, ou seja, o melhor que pode acontecer é... eu não estar me lembrando, em determinado momento, de como sou miserável e que nunca conseguirei o que realmente quero e preciso. Mas a vida é isso, aproveite os pequenos bons momentos. Momentos como estar sozinho de madrugada vendo um filme, sendo feliz sem saber, porque meus pais ainda estão vivos, me sustentando, com um teto na minha cabeça e eu aqui, reclamando de barriga cheia enquanto tanta gente vive sem ter o que comer? Eu não sei o que é ver a situação ficar realmente preta, não sei o que é sofrer e ter responsabilidades, ter que trabalhar pra ter o que comer? Isso que estou vivendo, então, é o tempo bom? Os melhores dias da minha vida? Explica-me, então: por que continuar? Porque é isso que a gente faz, apesar das dificuldades? E?
Irrita-me que sempre que não se está bem ou é, vá saber, luto normal/reação normal, ou, se passar disso, uma infantilidade, inabilidade em lidar com a situação. Irrita-me que eu pense que isso é estar querendo chamar atenção e que isso é – ta-dah – infantilidade. É só isso? Então as coisas realmente não têm solução, o negócio é apenas crescer, virar homem e parar de choramingar, porque o mundo não vai mudar. Você precisa lutar. A vida não é fácil mesmo. E todos os clichês que aparentam ser verdade. Então pra quê continuar? Pra aprender a engolir o choro sem falar nada porque é isso que uma pessoa adulta faz ou deveria fazer? Ah, abandona-se os prazeres infantis, mas tem-se o sexo, por exemplo. Prazeres da vida adulta. E se não tiver? E se você nunca encontrar, nunca entrar em contato com alguém que te maravilhe e a vida ficar encharcada todos os dias de rotina, monotonia e mediocridade? Eu espero muito da vida? Não sei, será? Não sei nem o que espero, estou me questionando. Sou um bebê chorão? Parece que sim, e se isso me irrita, segundo a ‘maravilhosa Psicologia’, tudo indica que é mesmo algo que passa perto de mim, pois me incomoda. O que faço com isso? Cresço e aprendo a tomar no cu sem reclamar? E* me disse que eu deveria pagar por sexo, se isso não me mudasse como pessoa em um mês, que eu me matasse mesmo. Ele não tem mais o que dizer, e eu também acho que não exista o que dizer. Dificilmente eu encontraria alguém que me agradaria, e eu não teria como pagar por sexo (e aqui vão outras palavras-chave da vida adulta como dinheiro e emprego, e então eu só admiro, de longe e perto demais, como eu sou pequeno e ridículo). No mais, rebaixar-me a ponto de pagar para ser penetrado por alguém que não me atrai seria talvez o estupro e o fim de tudo que ainda me mantém em pé à procura do que não se acha, esse amor romântico e doentio. Seria o mesmo que, e o passo anterior ao, suicídio. Às vezes, entretanto, penso que só conseguiria me relacionar com alguém dessa forma (pessoa-objeto), provavelmente também de uma forma fetichizada, pois por experiência própria sou levado a crer que quanto mais tempo sem sexo, mais “perversão”, mais fetiches surgem. Mais doentio fica. E quem se prestaria a esse papel senão por dinheiro? Como fica uma pessoa que só consegue pagando? Igual, melhor ou pior que uma pessoa que sempre quer mas nunca consegue?
Não acho que pensar em suicídio venha necessariamente de baixa auto-estima. Você pode se achar muito melhor do que 99% das pessoas, como eu acho (mas ainda assim refiro a mim como pequeno e ridículo, huh?), a ponto de continuar não valer a pena. Coisas como “tenha fé que eu tenho certeza que um dia você vai encontrar alguém” não me servem de nada, pois sabe-se muito bem que pode ser, sim, que NUNCA dê certo. E onde estará, aí, a justiça que não há? Em ‘outra vida’? E se eu não tenho mais fé é porque eu quero tudo agora e, logo, sou uma criança mimada? Voltamos à mesma. Pra onde isso tudo leva? O que se ganha em tudo que se perde? Experiência? Experiência pra quê? Para cada vez mais conseguir experiência com mais suor? E, enquanto isso, meu período de seis meses de tratamento com o antidepressivo acabou, e estou “livre para reduzir a dosagem até parar”. Que delícia, não?
Se palavras de esperança não dão esperança alguma, explicar minhas infantilidades só me diminui, me irrita e me fecha mais ainda – e potencialmente – o que me sobra? Porque acontecer o que desejo, isso sabe-se que não ocorrerá. Querer algo mais possível? Dar uma chance? Dizer sim às maravilhosas oportunidades que a vida lhe dá? Cadê a margarina desse comercial? Falta desejo meu de mudança? Chegará um momento de “ou vai ou racha” em que ou eu morro ou eu mudo e tudo isso faz parte do processo de crescimento que tanto me amedronta? Então todo mundo passa por exatamente isso por que estou passando? Não? Ah, mas eu quero ter controle da situação, dominar, essa infantilidade toda, essa coisa psicologicamente capenga que eu tenho que ajustar. Aham, e eu faço o quê com isso? Ser um homem, engolir o choro, crescer e calar a boca? Você percebe como não sobra NADA? “E só o acaso estende os braços a quem procura abrigo e proteção”, ou seja, o melhor que pode acontecer é... eu não estar me lembrando, em determinado momento, de como sou miserável e que nunca conseguirei o que realmente quero e preciso. Mas a vida é isso, aproveite os pequenos bons momentos. Momentos como estar sozinho de madrugada vendo um filme, sendo feliz sem saber, porque meus pais ainda estão vivos, me sustentando, com um teto na minha cabeça e eu aqui, reclamando de barriga cheia enquanto tanta gente vive sem ter o que comer? Eu não sei o que é ver a situação ficar realmente preta, não sei o que é sofrer e ter responsabilidades, ter que trabalhar pra ter o que comer? Isso que estou vivendo, então, é o tempo bom? Os melhores dias da minha vida? Explica-me, então: por que continuar? Porque é isso que a gente faz, apesar das dificuldades? E?
quarta-feira, 28 de julho de 2010
.
I met my killer and he’s so suicidal he’s afraid he won’t make it to my funeral. I wonder who’s the most important person in my life I haven’t met yet. Where am I?
Sometimes when I’m with you, I wonder how long it’ll be before I wake up. Do I think life owes me something? I’m not sure, though I feel there’s something people are not telling me – maybe something I’ve known longer than them (that I‘m fucked beyond this life). I can’t write – there’s no one to talk to. There’s the awful truth and the obviousness of the judgment you make of me.
I lie in bed and I can’t sleep, then wake up too late and miss my entire day. But no, I don’t want to go out, I don’t want visits, I don’t feel like anything at all. I’m aware of time and depression. I’m stuck in my body. There’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s nothing right either. Fuck you. And fuck me while you’re at it. Bla bla blah is all I hear. Static. I don’t want to engage in anything, but I don’t want to be left alone either.
Nothing is interesting enough and I get fatter everyday trying to fill the (w)hole. It’s 3:33am. You know what this means? Nothing. Shit. Yes, the meaning of life: it’s too fucking long and it’s over too fast. It’s creepy when you’ve got nothing to live for, not even a nice sentence to finish it all.
Sometimes when I’m with you, I wonder how long it’ll be before I wake up. Do I think life owes me something? I’m not sure, though I feel there’s something people are not telling me – maybe something I’ve known longer than them (that I‘m fucked beyond this life). I can’t write – there’s no one to talk to. There’s the awful truth and the obviousness of the judgment you make of me.
I lie in bed and I can’t sleep, then wake up too late and miss my entire day. But no, I don’t want to go out, I don’t want visits, I don’t feel like anything at all. I’m aware of time and depression. I’m stuck in my body. There’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s nothing right either. Fuck you. And fuck me while you’re at it. Bla bla blah is all I hear. Static. I don’t want to engage in anything, but I don’t want to be left alone either.
Nothing is interesting enough and I get fatter everyday trying to fill the (w)hole. It’s 3:33am. You know what this means? Nothing. Shit. Yes, the meaning of life: it’s too fucking long and it’s over too fast. It’s creepy when you’ve got nothing to live for, not even a nice sentence to finish it all.
sexta-feira, 18 de junho de 2010
0-2
I’m such a sick person, always in search of objects to fill the never-ending hole I could name after a Finn. I keep falling over, I keep passing out when I see a face like his, and I’m the only one to blame. I don’t think it matters what’s wrong and what’s right and I don’t think I should believe in such things… All I’ve known from my own, personal, subjective truth is that… it all seems wrong. If I’m part of everything, then I must be wrong too. Or perhaps I’m right, for noticing is wrong. Or is wrong right? Or are wrong and right bullshit concepts to control people? People, who are so easily controlled. Us, the domestic animals. Light at the end of the tunnel, a bright side, a way out… You name it, all sons of the same idea. All rotting the same fruits – us – into thinking bright, thinking right, thinking big, acting happy, fucking chicks, buying cars, polluting our corpses, smoking cigarettes and sucking cocks. Oh, not me.
I’m not happy, I’m not sad, I’m just bitter and faithless. But who’s to say when happiness ends and sadness begins? What’s the line between faith and faithlessness? We’re imprisioned by these words, by this duality that leads us nowhere, and still there’s almost nothing else we could use. I’m going mad, and there’s no one to help me. There couldn’t be, for I’m focusing on what really matters whenever I can, whenever it’s possible. Food for thought, anyone? Philosophy for a living, yes. Maybe. Who knows. It’s all in your mind.
Perhaps I could express it in a song.
But it’s best expressed in silence. Absolute silence.
I’m not happy, I’m not sad, I’m just bitter and faithless. But who’s to say when happiness ends and sadness begins? What’s the line between faith and faithlessness? We’re imprisioned by these words, by this duality that leads us nowhere, and still there’s almost nothing else we could use. I’m going mad, and there’s no one to help me. There couldn’t be, for I’m focusing on what really matters whenever I can, whenever it’s possible. Food for thought, anyone? Philosophy for a living, yes. Maybe. Who knows. It’s all in your mind.
Perhaps I could express it in a song.
But it’s best expressed in silence. Absolute silence.
sábado, 5 de junho de 2010
troubled water over bridge
The train is coming, but she’s all alone.
‘Breathe’, her body says, ‘it’s not intoxicating, it’s relaxing’.
It’s a long story – which is short for ‘I don’t want to tell’.
‘Breathe’, her body says, ‘it’s not intoxicating, it’s relaxing’.
It’s a long story – which is short for ‘I don’t want to tell’.
terça-feira, 18 de maio de 2010
bridge over troubled water
And so I grab a pen again, simply because it's rainy, cold and past 1a.m.... and I thought of you. Life is okay as long as I don't think of the future - or the past. I've bought a self-help book and I'll go on a diet again soon (well, I must), which reminds me I should exercise again. As I write I feel there's beauty in routine, and I wonder what's yours like. What's it like being you? Such questions are very interesting to me.
Last time we spoke you said I was wasting my life on guys I could never get and that I wasn't going to live past my 30s - maybe you're even right, though only time will tell. For now, most of the time, I'm okay with myself for a weird reason I have no idea of. I'm slowly trying to grow within my limitations rather than try outgrowing my limitations - that whole evolution before revolution thing.
I don't have much to talk about my life with others when they ask me what's up, except really mundane stuff which is what most conversations are made of once you know someone. However, if these walls could talk, they'd tell you I'm trying. All within my limits. It's hard having to say something new and exciting everyday, isn't it?
My mind is finally realizing how faraway internet relationships cannot be - but it hasn't warned my body yet, for it's still lost in aimless longing. Maybe it'll happen soon.
Sometimes Dylan's "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)" comes to mind about us. Perhaps I never realized how young we were and still are, but most likely this was never about age. The magic is that we've been a part of each other's lives and nothing will change that. I have all I could ever have of you: pictures, handwriting, and your voice. One of them is real. It's sad, but so are most things if we don't make an effort to see otherwise. An effort we don't always want to make.
For instance, I was talking today with a friend about life nd if I'd rather be happy in life and soon forgotten or lead a troublesome existence that would leave me on History. I doubt there's a soul out there who never wanted to be famous, rich or loved by many, but... I guess my dreams haven't been of that nature for many years. Using that common sense, if I write a book, plant a tree and have a son, it'll be okay. I don't think small, or maybe I do - but I act small, or maybe I don't. Adulthood calls us all eventually.
Perhaps I never loved you, only the idea of never being able to have you for many, many reasons. The body always wants, but the mind plays a different game. Perhaps my obsession towards you was all about getting me to show myself once again I'm unlovable.
I'm still trying, though echoes of your un-sexualization sometimes make me act that way too, which ends up only being something I say in the heat of the moment and not something I can actually do. Some things are hard and most of them are yet to come, and very likely love isn't the biggest issue here - oddly, it doesn't seem the most likely to get me killed, as you might know. You've chosen Jesus, I just might choose Nietzsche.
yours,
yuri.
Last time we spoke you said I was wasting my life on guys I could never get and that I wasn't going to live past my 30s - maybe you're even right, though only time will tell. For now, most of the time, I'm okay with myself for a weird reason I have no idea of. I'm slowly trying to grow within my limitations rather than try outgrowing my limitations - that whole evolution before revolution thing.
I don't have much to talk about my life with others when they ask me what's up, except really mundane stuff which is what most conversations are made of once you know someone. However, if these walls could talk, they'd tell you I'm trying. All within my limits. It's hard having to say something new and exciting everyday, isn't it?
My mind is finally realizing how faraway internet relationships cannot be - but it hasn't warned my body yet, for it's still lost in aimless longing. Maybe it'll happen soon.
Sometimes Dylan's "One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)" comes to mind about us. Perhaps I never realized how young we were and still are, but most likely this was never about age. The magic is that we've been a part of each other's lives and nothing will change that. I have all I could ever have of you: pictures, handwriting, and your voice. One of them is real. It's sad, but so are most things if we don't make an effort to see otherwise. An effort we don't always want to make.
For instance, I was talking today with a friend about life nd if I'd rather be happy in life and soon forgotten or lead a troublesome existence that would leave me on History. I doubt there's a soul out there who never wanted to be famous, rich or loved by many, but... I guess my dreams haven't been of that nature for many years. Using that common sense, if I write a book, plant a tree and have a son, it'll be okay. I don't think small, or maybe I do - but I act small, or maybe I don't. Adulthood calls us all eventually.
Perhaps I never loved you, only the idea of never being able to have you for many, many reasons. The body always wants, but the mind plays a different game. Perhaps my obsession towards you was all about getting me to show myself once again I'm unlovable.
I'm still trying, though echoes of your un-sexualization sometimes make me act that way too, which ends up only being something I say in the heat of the moment and not something I can actually do. Some things are hard and most of them are yet to come, and very likely love isn't the biggest issue here - oddly, it doesn't seem the most likely to get me killed, as you might know. You've chosen Jesus, I just might choose Nietzsche.
yours,
yuri.
sábado, 1 de maio de 2010
i am we
I want to be impregnated by men from different countries, I want sons and venereal diseases from each and every one of them. I want to carry them with me, I want the world in me. My plan is to have sex with as many men from as many different countries as I can. I want to be fucked by a beautiful man from Poland, and I want to be bathed in Swedish cum, still hot from extraction. I want the warmth of your body in mine, for I’m so cold. I need you to fill my hole. I need you to fill my holes. I need you whole. I want your children.
I want your underwear after a hard day’s work, I want to wear it on my face for as long as time can exist. I want your smell to take me. I want your urine right at my face so I can reach the golden halls of desire. I want it all, I want to much, but we all know it’s not nearly enough. So I want your hair, and I want to rub it on me after feeling it softly through my curious fingers. I want to clean your round and delicious butt with my tongue after you recycle, as long as I can lick your double heir production center and feel I hold all your future generations in my mouth. I want your rock-hard cocks splitting my willing ass, finnish man. I’d like it all for a hedonistic second or two just between the moment we ascend to the moment we’re back. I want to kiss your belly and follow the trail of hair (such a wonderful vegetation) that leads, any way I take, to dreamland. I want to hide myself in your bush, I want to sleep on you (and I want you to sleep on this). I want to lick the sweat out of your armpits. And if I’m ever insatiable, I want to be a big cook and taste your flesh. And when I’m satisfied then we can both be sure I am we.
I want your underwear after a hard day’s work, I want to wear it on my face for as long as time can exist. I want your smell to take me. I want your urine right at my face so I can reach the golden halls of desire. I want it all, I want to much, but we all know it’s not nearly enough. So I want your hair, and I want to rub it on me after feeling it softly through my curious fingers. I want to clean your round and delicious butt with my tongue after you recycle, as long as I can lick your double heir production center and feel I hold all your future generations in my mouth. I want your rock-hard cocks splitting my willing ass, finnish man. I’d like it all for a hedonistic second or two just between the moment we ascend to the moment we’re back. I want to kiss your belly and follow the trail of hair (such a wonderful vegetation) that leads, any way I take, to dreamland. I want to hide myself in your bush, I want to sleep on you (and I want you to sleep on this). I want to lick the sweat out of your armpits. And if I’m ever insatiable, I want to be a big cook and taste your flesh. And when I’m satisfied then we can both be sure I am we.
quinta-feira, 8 de abril de 2010
waves
I don't expect you to understand me, though I might've someday. You'll never know how it feels anyway. As a matter of fact, it's almost good you don't, for I'd hate to be understandable through your mentality. You, who makes self-destructive feel good. You should've seen behind this shining silence I shouted, I thought you knew better - though, to this day, I'm not sure I know you at all... though you're predictable in hate.
Don't knock on a door that's trying to stay close. If my sign says 'keep away', don't just stand there. Come.
Don't knock on a door that's trying to stay close. If my sign says 'keep away', don't just stand there. Come.
quinta-feira, 1 de abril de 2010
to me you are
Your face works its way through me in a manner I cannot describe by words or gesture.
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.
And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.
And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?
terça-feira, 9 de março de 2010
cigarettes and coffee
The fourth time we fought I thought was definitive. There wasn’t too much more of anything to rebuilt, and we’ be stuck with casual conversation. If we walked the same streets, we’d pray we’d go unnoticed, nod politely or you’d act too busy and excessively entertaining yourself with a winner who never had to fight. I’d be left with a scrapbook and I know you’d keep my letters too, though you’d never tell me. Though you don’t tell me anything lately.
Last time we fought I noticed how much we’ve changed and how much weight I’d gain for carrying such a heavy heart. Between jobs and between boyfriends, I knew I’d go out a couple of times before realizing I have no call on my destiny and I never knew how to meet men.
When we fought I knew I’d be the part who’d hurt the most, cause I’m a bad learner – and when I felt good, I’d feel bad for not feeling bad cause we deserve so much more. You and I never liked goodbyes, so even though we both knew (cause there’s always that feeling), we acted cool so we could play dead later.
I know I’d smile every time I’d eat wafers because I’d remember our inside joke, so I’d cry. I knew that if we ever went to our special place again, we wouldn’t kiss while people weren’t looking anymore. I knew I’d stalk you until I was hurt knowing you had someone new, cause I’m only human.
As time passed, I would also know I’d eventually find somebody nice though it’ll never be quite like you, cause some things are once in a lifetime. I made up with love what I lacked in beauty so you wouldn’t think about how out of my league you always were.
Last time we ever spoke I knew I’d to though depression (all the crying in the dark and listening to Billie Holiday), through anger (at humanity, at me, at you – but never at us) and through all those moments we can’t quite qualify.
The very last time I looked into your eyes I knew everything, but when you turned your back on me after our last hug I knew no longer, and I understood only why there’s no way up – there’s only falling in love.
Last time we fought I noticed how much we’ve changed and how much weight I’d gain for carrying such a heavy heart. Between jobs and between boyfriends, I knew I’d go out a couple of times before realizing I have no call on my destiny and I never knew how to meet men.
When we fought I knew I’d be the part who’d hurt the most, cause I’m a bad learner – and when I felt good, I’d feel bad for not feeling bad cause we deserve so much more. You and I never liked goodbyes, so even though we both knew (cause there’s always that feeling), we acted cool so we could play dead later.
I know I’d smile every time I’d eat wafers because I’d remember our inside joke, so I’d cry. I knew that if we ever went to our special place again, we wouldn’t kiss while people weren’t looking anymore. I knew I’d stalk you until I was hurt knowing you had someone new, cause I’m only human.
As time passed, I would also know I’d eventually find somebody nice though it’ll never be quite like you, cause some things are once in a lifetime. I made up with love what I lacked in beauty so you wouldn’t think about how out of my league you always were.
Last time we ever spoke I knew I’d to though depression (all the crying in the dark and listening to Billie Holiday), through anger (at humanity, at me, at you – but never at us) and through all those moments we can’t quite qualify.
The very last time I looked into your eyes I knew everything, but when you turned your back on me after our last hug I knew no longer, and I understood only why there’s no way up – there’s only falling in love.
domingo, 14 de fevereiro de 2010
?
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…
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…
segunda-feira, 8 de fevereiro de 2010
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.
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.
sexta-feira, 1 de janeiro de 2010
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.
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.
terça-feira, 8 de dezembro de 2009
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.
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.
sexta-feira, 4 de dezembro de 2009
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”
----
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”
quarta-feira, 25 de novembro de 2009
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?
- ... 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?
quinta-feira, 19 de novembro de 2009
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?
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?
quarta-feira, 4 de novembro de 2009
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.
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.
quarta-feira, 21 de outubro de 2009
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?
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?
terça-feira, 20 de outubro de 2009
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.”
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.”
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