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Friday, July 14, 2017

The world we know

O mundo nao para de falar. O mundo, estressada esfera, espreme. O mundo nos diz que está bem isto ou aquilo. Dita as regras do que e aceitável aos seres humanos. 

Short Story

Certain short stories seem to be more interesting in books. Not in real life. We tend to want to prolong what we perceive as good. It takes time to understand that it's fine if certain things have a very short life in our lives. Nonetheless, we get exasperated. 
As estradas dos meu coração são tortuosas. Uma ansia enorme em amar. E ao mesmo tempo a falta de saber como. O vácuo entre o teu e o meu coração. Essa ponte indestrutível que separa. Que espera.
Saiu o sol, aos poucos, meu corpo esfria. O tempo sempre contas tantas fabulas.

Outubro azul e seus sonhos não realizados. Qual e a parte desses sonhos na qual eu me encaixo?
Qual e o limite do amor muito amado?

Eu pinto a cara de cores insuspeitas. Pouco de azul-turquesa. Vermelho. Preto. Um pouco de bege rasgado nas pontas de um rosto cansado. Talvez as linhas do meu rosto nao te revelem a minha idade, mas é possível que te revelem o quanto cansada estou.

O dourado e um contorno absurdo, num cansaço tão pronunciado. Nao tem historia pra contar esse dourado. Esta apenas. Esta. Assim como esta em mim o arrepio. O arrepio do medo. Da solidao. De uma ilusao mais. Medo que nao sejas.

Thursday, July 13, 2017

Perception


He said: you have writing.
Not knowing I don’t have that talent anymore.
Not knowing I now struggle with feeling. With letting my soul breathe the way it knows best.
I wonder if that is why my life seems so blurry at this exact instant. If that is why I feel under water. Under pressure. Under.
I live the struggle of having to bounce back and forth between the concise English language and the long and dramatic Portuguese language.
He stands in front of me telling me I don’t know the culture of America of the 90’s. He stands there disagreeing with me.
I burst into tears. Dry tears they are. Because I can’t cry anymore.
I have a new job. A new lover. My spiritual journey is unfolding. I am learning new pieces of information that somehow help me. But what kind of help do I want? What kind of help do I need?
If being happier means that I can’t write anymore, then what does it mean to have the talent to do so?
Dry tears. Three wishes hanging from my neck. An aqua blank notebook to my right.  
Wonderment.
The power of words over me. It is always magical to learn new words. To live with them. To brew them in my soul and in my brain.
While you look at me, all blue eyes, all amazement and disdain, I entertain words in my head. Not angry words. Screaming words that say: don’t you see I am really telling you that I love you? Isn’t it clear that this is the only way I have to tell you: be kind. Be gentle with this heart. It has been so mishandled that it may shatter again. And then what are you going to do with a shattered heart? Pieces of cutting crystal.

I don’t want to see you bleeding. I don’t want to see you fulfilling your own prophecies of self-pity and lack of love. Because I am here with a unsurmountable amount of love to give you. Just let me. 

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Death

Maybe the necessity or desire to die is in fact a call from G-d. I have questioned G-d's existence for a long time. Blaming it for allowing suffering to happen.  But suffering is also part of existing. One of the many complexes layers that permeate what we perceive as reality. Then, suddenly, you are faced with life's finitude. The body's end. The culmination of somebody else's reality.

Across the street, the cemetery. And for a moment you see a whole funeral happening. But the person is still deforming right in front of you, begging G-d to have mercy. and wasn't her life just that? The profound begging for mercy?

I don't know.
I have never been this puzzled in my life.
My dad is shrinking by the minute. We face death together and it's a wake-up call. Because more than ever being alive makes sense. I want to have time. More than anything else.
So, I make my pledge.

I pray.
I haven't had the opportunity to really write about us. So much has happened. So much is happening.
I just don't want to forget the beauty of it all.

I have looked for a friend, a lover, a love that was worth experiencing. I have never found it. They were all thick smoke that dissipated in a short while. I have never looked for a mirror. I have actually said outloud that I didn't want to be with a carbon copy of myself. And here's where G-d must have laughed a great deal.

Cause I now see myself in the mirror. My raw, scarred self. We are finally reunited. We are one. And in this slice of reality that is called life, I face the challenge of recognizing and learning. The humbling experience of looking at yourself and seeing beauty, and flaws, and the spikes that make others react.

Desert flower, I wonder?
My desire to be in the desert.

The first time I saw the ocean and the desert together.
The beautiful landscape of Spain. The different hues of earthly tones. My eyes surrounded by Spain.

You were still a dream then. I didn't know you have been with me all this time.
There were moments that I felt you and talked to you.

But then I got tired of waiting and searching and I started focusing on not having any more memories of you. 

Thursday, March 09, 2017

The Math of You and Me

Everyday I come home and I mentally recount the ways you were wrong for me. The ways we were wrong for each other. The way I was wrong for you. And I try to do the math. It doesn't add up. It never adds up. Where did we really drop the ball?

Was it because I did not know you enough? Was it because I had a hunch? Or was it repetition compulsion?

I am distracting myself the best way I can. I am all over the place. Restless. Literally restless.
I go back and forth. I want to write, but then I can't. I want to dance, but then I remember. I want to organize the mess, but then I am tired.

I float around. Maybe like a ghost. No heart. No flash. No pain.
I float around, scattered cloud. Massive cloud without direction.
Trying to regroup. Trying to organize the house. Trying to be the house. The house of drying roses that still have a scent.

You
The cool guy
Me
The awkward girl


Such disparage
The dates are going to start repeating themselves. Our first anniversary. The first kiss.
The first dinner. The first questions. The first dreams. 

Sunday, February 26, 2017

O casamento na Espanha



Spain, September 2015

Havia tanto silêncio naquela tarde em que vi pela primeira vez o mar que banha a Espanha. Um casamento no rochedo. Uma noiva cativa a minha câmera. Não quero as velhas memórias que estão incrustadas nas paredes da tua pele. Nem o mesmo sorriso, nem o mesmo nome. Meu cabelo era mais loiro naqueles dias em que conheci os rochedos banhados de sol e mediterraneo. Minha alma mais pura. Menos perdida que agora. Sal puro e ardente na pele de quem se encontra nas águas azuis do mediterrâneo. Haviam menos guerras sendo travadas dentro de mim. Tu ainda não estavas. Tu ainda eras sonho. 


Of the Art of Misplacing Things and One's Heart

I misplace things
this time I misplaced my
heart

I left my heart in your
hands

Your Hands in My Heart
by JR

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Nunca

Nunca pude te dizer onde doía pois nem mesmo eu sabia. Houve uma época na minha vida na qual eu era ouvinte. Houve uma época na minha vida na qual eu escutava e sempre calava. Dificil para mim sustentar-me nesta corda frágil chamada presente. De certa forma o passado sempre parece merecer atenção e carinho. E o futuro parece necessitar esmero e trabalho. Nunca te disse o quanto doía ser estrela cadente.  Não ser a personagem principal. Não ter papel importante, principal na vida de um homem. Em mim sempre houve uma certeza que nasci para amar. Amar a beleza e o que não e solidão. Amar sons, o oceano. Amar o amor, os rios. Os pássaros e o céu. O sol que desperta antes. Para mim sempre foi tudo amor. Pela musica, pelas cores, pelas pessoas. Amor que liberta, que desnorteia. Nunca te disse quais eram os meus medos por sempre ter a impressão de que o cristal se romperia. A dor de saber-me passageira. Sempre a batalha do eu. Um eu que agoniza e desperta todos os dias. Sempre te confessei tantas coisas. e de peito aberto segui pela vida, esperando. E a espera sempre erode. Nunca. Nunca fui apenas tua ouvinte. Tu me ofertavas música. No sentido mais amplo. Mais bonito. Mas a música perdeu o sentido depois de eu ser mais uma vez, cadente. Não sou mais ouvinte. E me arrependo de não ter contado daquela dor no passado, quando era. Quando estava ainda brilhando.

Wednesday, February 01, 2017

Shrapnel flying

Since then I was in New Mexico and North Carolina, beautiful skies at night. A multitude of color, clouds and stars. Since then I have been struggling with balancing life and love and then some pieces of love breaking into the skin and cutting it deep. I lost a sense of understanding. Lost a sense of purpose. Lost the very thin sense of belonging I had. I don't recognize the walls I see. I miss the red and the water. What is it like to have love and that love make you feel unloved? Does that even make sense? Am I capable of eliminating thoughts from my head? Is that the only way? 

I think of three of you. So unavailable.