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?
quarta-feira, 21 de outubro de 2009
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.”
quinta-feira, 15 de outubro de 2009
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.
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.
domingo, 20 de setembro de 2009
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.
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.
segunda-feira, 14 de setembro de 2009
Saturday, September 12th 2009.
There is just so much of misfortune I’ve written for the last three or four years, it seems like I’ve dried out of ways to feel bad about life and myself. Life, however, is full of little tricks and always eager to show you how bad things can be. You can never have a strong enough heart, for love requires always way too much than you can give. Sometimes I think it’s like a virus: if you can take it, your body fights it before you can feel it. Not love, as you know just as well as I do.
I’ve decided to write tonight because I’ve been feeling really bad lately, I even cried in front of my mom today – I don’t recall that happening, ever. More than often, nowadays, I think of death. My self-inflicted one. Everyone knows I’ve been in a slow-motion suicide for the past three years. How can it be fair? No, I know it’s not. How do people live, then? Out of pure ignorance, as in… ignoring how hateful and disgusting society is? I’ve been told I take things too seriously and that’s why I won’t ever live a normal life. Is normal life this shallow and ignorant?
But who am I kidding… I’m ignorant too, for not thinking of African kids, or even homeless people from our owns towns. Right now, to be honest, I don't care about anything anymore, or anyone. I am part of what's disgusting. My troubles are also far too important and take me whole, I don't have the energy for anyone else, anymore. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it anymore. Everyone must ignore a lot of things in order to keep living. Tell me… How am I supposed to be positive when so very few of my experiences are positive?
“You can choose how you see things”. Ok, let’s try.
Wheeee! I’m so happy I’ve never had the chance to hold anybody I loved, I’m so happy I’m miserable, isn’t it yummy that I’m still available and have been for nearly 21 years? It’s absolutely fabulous that I hate nearly everything about me, physically, and would have a really hard time undressing in front of anyone. Let’s all have a big party celebrating my unwanted celibacy, broken dreams, helplessness about every single thing of life!!!
I feel better…
… not. Have you ever noticed that no one can do a thing when you’re sad?
Today I’ve had my 70th psychologist appointment. I’ve looked at notes from the second appointment and I see I’m pretty much even worse, because though I do know a LOT about myself now, I’ve been living with the same pain for years and it makes me more and more bitter everyday. I’m more pessimistic now because I know how things happen, and that there’s no way out except down. I’ve had three moments of REAL happiness in the past three years: when K. told me he was bi (how did that end up? Nowhere.) The In Flames concert. When I thought W. loved me (and you’d think you get wiser growing up). Wake up, moron! No one will love you as a lover. Maybe as a friend, tops. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re a pitiful excuse for a person. Who cares what you think? You suffocate people when you love them, you know that? It’s one of the reasons why no one will ever love you. And even if – what a surprise – they do…. You’re not naïve enough to think that would end your troubles, do you? (no, I don’t).
The funny thing is… I have already found the perfect man, the one I’ve been looking for all along (my projection, could it be, could it be?). But I’m, obviously, not good enough, in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong face and the wrong ways. It’ll never happen. Where are you, interesting men?
Marcos… do you remember me? You were my first love. Have you told anyone about your bisexual days?
Neto… would you stop and say ‘hi’ if we met somewhere? I will never love anyone the way I loved you, and a part of me will always, always desire for a hug. I have been sentenced to seek you in every men.
K., I would die if I met you. I couldn’t take life afterwads.
W., why don’t you break my heart at once? You’re the perfect man, and not because I breathe you every second… it’s because you have nearly everything I hold dear in (few) people. Maybe in another lifetime I will look at you, face to face, and cry endlessly not knowing why. When I die, my soul – if there is such a thing, which I doubt – will hopefully hover around and see you. I wish great happiness for you. And when I die, if there’s such a thing as staying on Earth for a while until I’m gone, I’d also like to stop for a minute and look at your future man – the luckiest by far, hoping he’ll treat you like I would. Hoping he’s loving you like I do. Hoping, the most, that he’s making you feel better about yourself, something I could never do.
I’ve decided to write tonight because I’ve been feeling really bad lately, I even cried in front of my mom today – I don’t recall that happening, ever. More than often, nowadays, I think of death. My self-inflicted one. Everyone knows I’ve been in a slow-motion suicide for the past three years. How can it be fair? No, I know it’s not. How do people live, then? Out of pure ignorance, as in… ignoring how hateful and disgusting society is? I’ve been told I take things too seriously and that’s why I won’t ever live a normal life. Is normal life this shallow and ignorant?
But who am I kidding… I’m ignorant too, for not thinking of African kids, or even homeless people from our owns towns. Right now, to be honest, I don't care about anything anymore, or anyone. I am part of what's disgusting. My troubles are also far too important and take me whole, I don't have the energy for anyone else, anymore. I don't know what you want, but I can't give it anymore. Everyone must ignore a lot of things in order to keep living. Tell me… How am I supposed to be positive when so very few of my experiences are positive?
“You can choose how you see things”. Ok, let’s try.
Wheeee! I’m so happy I’ve never had the chance to hold anybody I loved, I’m so happy I’m miserable, isn’t it yummy that I’m still available and have been for nearly 21 years? It’s absolutely fabulous that I hate nearly everything about me, physically, and would have a really hard time undressing in front of anyone. Let’s all have a big party celebrating my unwanted celibacy, broken dreams, helplessness about every single thing of life!!!
I feel better…
… not. Have you ever noticed that no one can do a thing when you’re sad?
Today I’ve had my 70th psychologist appointment. I’ve looked at notes from the second appointment and I see I’m pretty much even worse, because though I do know a LOT about myself now, I’ve been living with the same pain for years and it makes me more and more bitter everyday. I’m more pessimistic now because I know how things happen, and that there’s no way out except down. I’ve had three moments of REAL happiness in the past three years: when K. told me he was bi (how did that end up? Nowhere.) The In Flames concert. When I thought W. loved me (and you’d think you get wiser growing up). Wake up, moron! No one will love you as a lover. Maybe as a friend, tops. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re a pitiful excuse for a person. Who cares what you think? You suffocate people when you love them, you know that? It’s one of the reasons why no one will ever love you. And even if – what a surprise – they do…. You’re not naïve enough to think that would end your troubles, do you? (no, I don’t).
The funny thing is… I have already found the perfect man, the one I’ve been looking for all along (my projection, could it be, could it be?). But I’m, obviously, not good enough, in the wrong place, in the wrong time, with the wrong face and the wrong ways. It’ll never happen. Where are you, interesting men?
Marcos… do you remember me? You were my first love. Have you told anyone about your bisexual days?
Neto… would you stop and say ‘hi’ if we met somewhere? I will never love anyone the way I loved you, and a part of me will always, always desire for a hug. I have been sentenced to seek you in every men.
K., I would die if I met you. I couldn’t take life afterwads.
W., why don’t you break my heart at once? You’re the perfect man, and not because I breathe you every second… it’s because you have nearly everything I hold dear in (few) people. Maybe in another lifetime I will look at you, face to face, and cry endlessly not knowing why. When I die, my soul – if there is such a thing, which I doubt – will hopefully hover around and see you. I wish great happiness for you. And when I die, if there’s such a thing as staying on Earth for a while until I’m gone, I’d also like to stop for a minute and look at your future man – the luckiest by far, hoping he’ll treat you like I would. Hoping he’s loving you like I do. Hoping, the most, that he’s making you feel better about yourself, something I could never do.
terça-feira, 4 de agosto de 2009
monday
Why must beauty always come with an antidote for my desire? Why must we seldom see each other roaming these grey streets, never to touch, never to bump, never to know if ‘we’ could be ‘us’? Why must we be prisioners of not knowing, strangers of odd starings? And yet you willingly undress for me, in the most vulgar way – for we know it’ll be quick, no matter how slow we walk. Until one day we’ll crash. The impact will be so strong, it’ll shatter our ground, it’ll explode our existence. We might even say “sorry”, and then walk away. Forever changed.
sexta-feira, 10 de julho de 2009
?
It’s such a shame, isn’t it?
That there’s nothing to be done
That we don’t actually fit in anywhere
And that nothing is just right for us
I’m aware it’s disappointing
That you and I are so far we can’t reach
Yet we spend endless nights wondering
What ever happened to the joy we never had
This never-experienced contentment of our part, dear
Is a mere inconvenience this lifestyle displays
I’ve been told (by myself), pumpkin pie,
That you can either be happy or be interesting
Have I told you I’m sorry?
For nothing, really, but it always feels
I’m missing something and that fits
I didn’t mean to fill the silence, it sometimes happens…
I can’t say I’m comfortable with this shallow smile
You sometimes put on my face, for I know it lies
It shouldn’t really be a smile at all, it comes out wrong
Yet, sometimes, we all must fake it
You know me by now, and I surely do
I’ve sat in the dark too often, and I could see you
I’m not romantic anymore, man, I’m horny
And we’re still making love when you can’t see me
I’ve tried to turn on the lights, but the sight is just awful
I don’t know who you are, who I’m writing to
What I mean and who I’m supposed to be
But I’m here, darling
Precisely where I can’t be found
Between this keyboard and
A bed that could easily shelter another
- although, as time has proven, it won’t
I’m in the exact place where we can’t ever meet
Because neither of us would step out of our own little worlds
And in much too comfort by the idea that
We will never. ever. be.
Breathing is tiring and
Life is never kind, we know
What are we waiting for?
I'm waiting for you
That there’s nothing to be done
That we don’t actually fit in anywhere
And that nothing is just right for us
I’m aware it’s disappointing
That you and I are so far we can’t reach
Yet we spend endless nights wondering
What ever happened to the joy we never had
This never-experienced contentment of our part, dear
Is a mere inconvenience this lifestyle displays
I’ve been told (by myself), pumpkin pie,
That you can either be happy or be interesting
Have I told you I’m sorry?
For nothing, really, but it always feels
I’m missing something and that fits
I didn’t mean to fill the silence, it sometimes happens…
I can’t say I’m comfortable with this shallow smile
You sometimes put on my face, for I know it lies
It shouldn’t really be a smile at all, it comes out wrong
Yet, sometimes, we all must fake it
You know me by now, and I surely do
I’ve sat in the dark too often, and I could see you
I’m not romantic anymore, man, I’m horny
And we’re still making love when you can’t see me
I’ve tried to turn on the lights, but the sight is just awful
I don’t know who you are, who I’m writing to
What I mean and who I’m supposed to be
But I’m here, darling
Precisely where I can’t be found
Between this keyboard and
A bed that could easily shelter another
- although, as time has proven, it won’t
I’m in the exact place where we can’t ever meet
Because neither of us would step out of our own little worlds
And in much too comfort by the idea that
We will never. ever. be.
Breathing is tiring and
Life is never kind, we know
What are we waiting for?
I'm waiting for you
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