You've got me thinking
English: it seems like I can’t win. I can read it well, I can write it relatively well, but when it comes to speaking I will always battle with uncertainties. To live in a foreign country is to live constantly wondering if you’re being understood. And there are so many levels involved within communication. I can’t win because if I speak Portuguese there’s this weird way in that I read the world and in which I manifest myself. If I speak English, there’s this weird way in that I read the world on top of my accent. Definitely, I can’t win.
I’d like my place to be a bit more pre-Raphaelite.
A face that looks Indian.
Sometimes things don’t belong together and that’s good. It makes it easier to understand the permanence of so many other things.
I should pay more attention to what people write and tell me.
I spell your name almost as if I had some type of obsessive compulsive disorder. I don’t. Move my lips very slowly. I make grammar mistakes over and over again. And I know that. I devour your fingers so just I can remember the salty taste of the sea - when we were together.
Days, hiccups, something sharp on the table, the empty bedroom, a missing blanket. The windows are closed. I walk silently so you can remember me like a mystery: did she really happen in my life or was I just dreaming? All of a sudden, Microsoft Word tells me: fragment, consider revision. I don’t go back. I don’t look back, unless the mistake I make gets stuck in my mind and triggers so much suffering that I have to call someone for help.
I always like to think about the things I learned from my mom and the things I learned from my dad. My mom taught me how to float in the ocean. My dad taught me how jump through waves that were larger than my body. Yesterday, after so many years, I started thinking about what my dad taught me about the ocean, and for a few moments I was nostalgic for the conversations we used to have and I missed him. I missed seeing him in the ocean. He used not to go very far, but he was the best and most handsome seafood fisherman. He used his hands to patiently remove the sand, wave after wave, and find those bivalve white clams that we loved so much.
It doesn’t really matter what my hair looks like. What matters the most is the idea behind a photo, a concept. The solitude captured by a picture that I took of myself and the time I spent preparing to be the mirror of my soul. I was happy when I took that picture, I was excited. Maybe someday she’ll look at my pictures and see me how I really was, exactly how I look at my mom’s pictures (the very few that were taken) and I miss her.
I’d like my place to be a bit more pre-Raphaelite.
A face that looks Indian.
Sometimes things don’t belong together and that’s good. It makes it easier to understand the permanence of so many other things.
I should pay more attention to what people write and tell me.
I spell your name almost as if I had some type of obsessive compulsive disorder. I don’t. Move my lips very slowly. I make grammar mistakes over and over again. And I know that. I devour your fingers so just I can remember the salty taste of the sea - when we were together.
Days, hiccups, something sharp on the table, the empty bedroom, a missing blanket. The windows are closed. I walk silently so you can remember me like a mystery: did she really happen in my life or was I just dreaming? All of a sudden, Microsoft Word tells me: fragment, consider revision. I don’t go back. I don’t look back, unless the mistake I make gets stuck in my mind and triggers so much suffering that I have to call someone for help.
I always like to think about the things I learned from my mom and the things I learned from my dad. My mom taught me how to float in the ocean. My dad taught me how jump through waves that were larger than my body. Yesterday, after so many years, I started thinking about what my dad taught me about the ocean, and for a few moments I was nostalgic for the conversations we used to have and I missed him. I missed seeing him in the ocean. He used not to go very far, but he was the best and most handsome seafood fisherman. He used his hands to patiently remove the sand, wave after wave, and find those bivalve white clams that we loved so much.
It doesn’t really matter what my hair looks like. What matters the most is the idea behind a photo, a concept. The solitude captured by a picture that I took of myself and the time I spent preparing to be the mirror of my soul. I was happy when I took that picture, I was excited. Maybe someday she’ll look at my pictures and see me how I really was, exactly how I look at my mom’s pictures (the very few that were taken) and I miss her.
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