Tuesday, December 05, 2017

Expiration Date

Living the pain of wanting a loved one to die
Makes me wish I had no heart
No brain
No thoughts
Because it hurts
To see you dying
And to wish your suffering had an expiration date

Sunday, August 13, 2017

The Drowning Shell

Photo by Dan Garver

Tomorrow is a brand new day he said and he called her deary.
She closed her eyes and then realized she was still alive. Despite all the pain she had endured all of her life. The pain had not killed her even if sometimes it had felt like it would. She liked the house with all its lights out and the quietness of all the noises in a comfortable distance. Somewhere, she was sure, people were talking animatedly. Lights on, loud voices, music in the background. Music, the greatest viable way to redeem the soul. Joy, she thought. To spare the body from its maladies. It’s music. Music and the art of being fictitious with stories everyone knows. With stories everyone live, experiment, forget. Loves that people leave behind. 

I sip from a hot cup of tea. The rain has stopped. My dad can’t speak anymore. He lost weight. 
We don’t talk. Somehow, I am managing to encapsulate myself inside of a life that is deserted. But it’s not even me. It must be that it’s written by the stars. I am drawing half-hearted dreams with oil pastel crayons and chalk in pieces of paper that I want to hang in the living room. A colored puzzle that hangs from a wall. There's no better way to mend a broken heart.

My soul is mute, but it’s colorful. It’s also blue and multicolored. The rain stopped and amidst all the chaos, you wrote that you love me. I hesitate. Should I respond? If so, would I do it just out of vanity? 

I have cried last night and today. It is the absence of you and our dreams. It’s the questions I have. I want to touch your tears. The desert that you are. Half a heart aching and looking for.
I love you – always have. I always will.

The rain stopped. And yet I still see water coming down.
I sip from a cup of tea, deluding myself. Trying to conform to what was normal before you. But there was no really a time before you. I have always waited for you. I have always communicated with you. You. I cheated. I sought for your love in the arms of other men. I cheated on them.

Roses in the desert. I am fighting my own heart. Deceiving my head. Trying to keep things straight the best I can. And yet. The rain has stopped and the shell that carries all the love you can possibly find in the world, is drowning. It is drowning in its own home: the ocean.

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


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.  
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


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.

The cool guy
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

I left my heart in your

Your Hands in My Heart
by JR