Wednesday, December 02, 2015

The rest of the night is spent with my thoughts - good morning!

I am spending the rest of my night smoking my cigarettes, listening to music and wondering.
Oh how I wonder. I wonder about what is yet to come. I wonder about what will all this bring me. I wonder what might be different this time, eventhough you're still acting like a caring young guy, like someone who'd care for someone else of you like. Do you really like me, the way you said you did? 
I wonder.

The night goes by and it's not too fast. The night goes by and I have some time to think about that meeting - the house had a very intense smell to piss of cat and you kept on mentioning my choices, on putting unsaid / umwritten words in my mouth / under my fingers. For someone who speaks a lot about keeping up with an open-mind, you're the one who felt angered at the difference of opinions and for someone under the circumstance of speaking about aiding others and living in peace, you're the one to threaten me the same exact way you are saying that you're attacking the others. Oh, c'mon, can't you see that it's healty to have different opinions and it doesn't means that any of us is wrong? For someone whose mind is so open, why can't you accept that someone can't see the world as such a positive place as you "paint" it out?

I don't want to play the "blaming game".
Do not shoot me. I won't shoot back.
Do not igore me, do not give me a bad face. You won't get the same back.
"Amr com amor se paga" - Love is paid with Love. It works in any other way.

I can now imagine the mount ahead me. The streets of my old village develop ahead me and my steps are strong and secure. I fear not.
You won't see me for a while. A few years later, you might receive the notification of my death. You're invited to a great party after my funeral. My legacy might not be what I've written, neither what I have drawn. My legacy might be the funny stories that you use to humiliate me nowadays. My legay might be the rising from the depths of Hell - this world we live on and their fingers, their voices, their opinions. I don't care. And I couldn't care less, especially after death.
The world spins around. And it keeps spinning.
One day, I'll wake up to a sunny morning in the countryside. That tiny village I speak of. And no dark will be allowed. And no more ethusiasm out mundane chores, as politics, will ever be allowed.
Sing along. Sing along.
Ignore me.
Despise me.
Use me, as a motivational piece. Dump me right after.
You'll see me rising up. On different paths and I'll see you as I pass by. My hand will wave you goodbye, as you see me disappearing in the nocturnal fog.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Writing, being outlaw and the witchcraft of feelings

"I dare myself to put my body on the line. My writing is where I can be most unlawful, and where I can perform countless crimes, literary and otherwise, without any real retaliation. If I am going to repress myself 24 hours a day, if I am going to smile and speak politely, not lose my temper, say please and thank you, even while being detained in a cage of micro-aggressions (at work, or even within my most intimate relationships), I simply refuse to concede any thing on the page itself. It’s mine. It’s the only thing I have, this tender sliver of a murdered tree."
~Robin Coste Lewis
Seen on Shivanee Ramlochan's Facebook wall, my dear friend from Trinidad and Tobago, posted from Almah LaVon SecretnBold.
Thank you both, for being so kind to share this amazing text and for allowing me to share it. Please, keep up the great work of sharing the feelings, self or from others, of making people like me to feel different ways of feeling, to be witnesses of different points of view, to live as if tomorrow did not matter, because we have the present time exactly for that: to feel!

Thursday, November 12, 2015

Rambling and wandering

The words fail to me, from times to times. I search continuosly for the right words to write and yet it seems a hard task. I keep on trying and trying, until something pops up.
I recently bought a new notebook. I got one of those notebooks that I was seing on the post station. But they were more expensive than I could ever afford them, until the last time I needed stamps. I was prepared to spend an extra money and, finally, the colourful notebook rests untouched in front of me. I've been talking and typing about re-write by hand nine years of diary entries in old notebooks, of different sizes and shapes. Some pages have been ripped off, thrown onto the recycling bin and I've stopped myself before it was too late nothing was left from them. I will have to do a more careful selection of what to keep, of what to throw away, but that will have to be decided during the writing time. I need to start, though.
I see te world through the eyes of experience. I may not be not experienced in certain lifestyles, like some people, but my experience has offered me a very particular way of being and seing the world, even to deal with it. I see the world and the behaviour of people and what scared me yesterday is something very normal today. What was a normal thing yesterday, might be the most terrifying thing today. I see the world, I live life in a crazy way, you'd say. You call me to be more careful, to be more patience, yet you'd push me to work hard and right for whatever I wanted to achieve and to move away from whatever was that I wanted to walk away from. Some people are saying that they admire me and my way of being and seing things, particularly the world and life itself. I have no idea of what to think about this - so I live without thinking too much, loving those who I should love, despising the others and having occasional 'seasons' of wrath against the remaining few. I keep living, thnking, feeling, allowing myself to ramble and wander.

Not all who wander are lost.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

Of vampires and desires - the right book for you (or as a gift)

Of darkness and dark desires. Of nocturnal creatures, of madness and erotic feasts. Threatning to bring dark creatures to their old glory, Lizbeth Gabriel brings us this book of short stories, wonderfully written, full of darkness and moments of undoubtelly good humour.
The Theater Of Dusk is the right book, if you're seraching for all of the above in a single book.

NOTE TO READERS: Independent published authors survive from reviews and often people lose nothing by reviewing the amazing works that come accross their hands. If you're a reader of this book, please care to write a review about it on the website. Thank you so much!

Sunday, November 08, 2015

Anette Olzon, "Lies" for Nightwish guys

Well, I didn't had any idea that we'd came here tonight. Neither did I expect to receive a phone call from my mum at 2 in the morning, saying that some assholes had ranged the door bell and started running up or down the stairs, causing the neighbours to call the police. Well, it had this good thing, that made me start googling about a band, about people that I've considered important in times (and they are. They still are, though on a very different level). And in this, Wikipedia is a very useful tool.
The band that I went to google / search about is this very famous band, called Nightwish. I searched about Tuomas Holopainen himself, on the top of his mastery and sexiness. Then, after already knowing that he had fired the amazing Tarja, I went to search about this sweet voiced lady, Anette Olzon, and I realized what I knew deep down on the core of my soul: Anette said that she got fired, the same way Tarja did, eventhough I don't believe it was because of Anette's pregnancy. I'd rather say that, by looking at Floor Jansen's vocal record, they were looking for that something magical that was lost when they have fired Tarja, but that is something that might never ever be found again. What is sad. Because they are a great band, she is a great singer and... come on, they were made and created together. None of them would have reached this far on their own.
So, after searching for all of this, I really had to say that despite my initial aversion to Anette, she has conquered a special place in my heart. And here she is, singing those lies for us.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

Thursday, October 29, 2015

Fetlife - wasting my time

It's night. I came from work not too long ago.
Sitting in the old couch of my old living / dining room, I have decided to check out my profile on that website. That is a good website to get some good eye candy, but for rare occasions to have good and decent conversations. It is kind of problematic to me, to get some good comversations with people.
From times to times, I text a message for a text service of chat. I leave my number there, in the hope someone comes along with a good conversation. I end up sex-ting. Rare are the men who come up with any other good conversation, without involving sexual traits. And those who do, always want to meet up, get boyfriends and the whole stack of ideas you might getting in your heads.
That website serves the nice purpose to see handsome men (I am not really into looking at the ladies, boobs and the rest of their bits). It also serves the purpose of getting to know different fetishes, people into them. And that is how I have been delighting my eyes, my mind. Wasting time looking at handsome and well built men.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

What am I writing about?

Do not allow me to forget where did I came from.
Let me destroy. Create. Destroy again. Re-create.
Do not allow me to forget who has been staying all this time. Do not allow me to forget those who simply left.
Good old times.
Good old looks.
Good old smiles.
Good old laughs.
Seek. Seek me in the park, laid in the land, smoking a cigarette. Seek me in the countryside, wondering the beauty of the mountain ahead. Seek me mourning the loss, the death, the forever gone passion. Seek me. Do not give up on me.
I am here, standing by you.
I feel... somewhat of something. Clear?
I am the footsteps in the darkness of the night.
I am the shadow at your window.
I am the nocturnal birds, crossing the sky of the city.
I am the prayer.
The light of the candle.
The spell you leave in the woods.
I am the forever embrace, the forever cold, the forever silence.
The moon stays up there.
The world changes.
You are there, seing the moon on your corner.
I am here. I've seen it's beauty while I walked to work, under the cold breeze of the night.
We're living life the way it pleases us the most. We're living life in a way that we can... well, afford. Dare to live it at it's fullest with the small income we have.
You, in your land.
Me, in mine.
We're ready and about to fly. But it's not the due time. Not yet.
And I cannot forget. I cannot dare to forget, to lower my guard.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Forbidden thoughts - at night, in the woods, in the city

A bad, mad, sad creature.
He walks the streets of the city, under the cold rain. He walks the darkness of the woods, under the pale blue moonlight.
They walk around. Little shinning eyes in the darkness.
Noises. Something groans.
Someone moans.
He doesn't fear and keeps walking, as there's no danger. Nothing's dangerous for this insane creature - or it's too dangerous, but the eyes are kept shut to the facts.
He sees nothing. He feels the heat of naked bodies in the darkness. He feels the warmth of sex being made, the sounds of human's nature. He past walks.
There's nothing in the darkness. There's nothing to fear.

Friday, October 23, 2015

Just because you are yourself.
Just because you chase the truth.
Just because you dig things deep. Yet there isn't nothing different to be seen.
Am I writing about you? Am I writing about myself? Who knows? Who cares, after all?
I see and go deeper. I seek the answers, the changes, yet there are no changes to be done. I see it now and it has been destroyed by the belief that such words could be misinterpretated - fuck them, fuck what they say or think.

You shouldn't fear the thoughts of the others. They haven't been in your life during the times of struggle. They haven't lived the hard times for you. 
Those have been your words, my friend, not too long ago. And you were right. I should be happilly living my life the way I want, the way it pleases me, yet I can not help it, but to think, to wonder what others' thoughts are going to be. It may have been my path, my evolution, but I still feel somehow trapped on what their thoughts might be.

I call the name of countless people. Are they real? Do they live in the physical world? In the same time of existence that I do? Or are they people living inside my inner world?
I see countless landscapes. Are those landscapes from the same existing plan or are they also part of my inner self?

I see days passing by. I fear to be just a tasteful bit of wrong, that'll never ever be anything good or right. I fear that my self-esteem will be a fading shade of the fading shade that I am myself.

I should be too many things

I have decided to edit this blog. Now I have decided to leave it the way it is. Tomorrow, I might believe that there's a great chance that I have acted like stupid, by starting with the editing, by starting to delete old images, old entries.
I should be sleeping. There are many other things I should be, but that I am not.
I have two letters to write, yet there are no ideas of what to say, I have no idea of what to write.
The last months have been terrible in so many ways. The months to come might be wonderful, depending on how much effort I do put on them.
Let's see.
I went to see someone. A door that should have been kept closed. Now, I see what I miss. I look at what I have craved in the past and... well, it's still necessary. It's still something I could use, because my hands and my body act so naturaly.
I should have kept that door closed. And the night breeze would enter through the tiny little opening of my room's window.

Monday, October 19, 2015


Where are the dreams and the hope? The so promised days, of sunshine, smiles, wind in the desert? Where are the so promised nights of lust and desire, of moonlight, of dances around bonfires? Where are the beautiful princes of the deserts, their caravans, their beautiful slaves? Where's the lamp with the genius, where's my flyin carpet? And what about the gold, tons of gold, inside a magic cave? Where are the beautiful eyes looking at me through the room, at the light of lmps of oil? Where are my desires? Where is my heart? Where is my soul?

Monday, October 05, 2015

It's raining and I have no idea of what to write

I am trying a new blogging platform. It is a Portuguese platform, so I have decided to try it there again. Call me mad, I might be. Or I really am.
It rains hard outside. It rains deep inside of me. I am looking for answers. Answers without even knowing what are the questions. I long for something that I have no idea what it is. The older I get, more questions I have, without properly knowing what questions are those.
I fly. I fly deep within my soul. I fly to distant lands of fairytales, of wars and conquers. I fly and I rise high in the sky, like an enormous dragon above a castle. I want to write, but the words won't come out. I feel the urge to write, but I have no idea of what to write. I start and wish for the very best, but that very best isn't enough, that very best isn't good enough. And those lands of fantasy seem farther than ever before.

Friday, October 02, 2015

What I decide (not) to do

When we decide to do something, it's better to write down what have we decided to do.
It suits what I am doing with these blogs, with my diaries... I start deleting some stuffs, but I don't even correct others. It's a matter of feeling and flow. And the feeling tells me to correct and delete, the flow tells me to do only what's necessary.

There is no meaning to the things that keep happening.

There's no reason.

There's nothing.

Paranoid, folks. It's all about paranoia!!!

Monday, September 28, 2015

"(...) todos me dicen el negro, llorona, negro pero carinoso, yo soy como el chile verde, picante pero sabroso (...)"

Here I am again. Maybe there isn't anything worthy to be written about, but I need to try, right?
I have had the time to step away from those who I held has the most endearing. I have had the time to step away from nearly everyone. And it has been good. It has been really good.
Things seem to walk into the right rythm. Things seem to be getting right. And it requires the continuity of my secret, the continuity of my silence and state-of-nearly-chronic-absence. Things require more time to myself. More time to the true healing of my soul. More time to see the passerbies. More time to see the shadows.
In the end, I'm going to be a ghost.
The ghost walks the streets of the city.
He sees their smiles and their serius faces.
He sees the masks.
He sees the cigarettes (and inhales the smell of joints in the air).

I like to step the streets of the city. I missed that place a lot.

I missed what those changex have been bringing to my life.
Independence, again - total, not a partial taste of it.
I missed the beauty of being a mad grown up. I missed what more can be brought by the happier times. And it'll come. Or maybe not.This time, I won't weep regreting what I could've done.

Look at the passing shadow. Fell the cold breath on your neck, the cold lips getting warm in your lips. Feel the glory. Feel.

Just feel.

Friday, September 25, 2015

We have no idea

Fado sung in Japanese. Amália Rodrigues has sung in Japan and left her mark there, as we can hear in this video.
We never know what we'll wake in the others. We have never idea of how long will still be reminded by those who are living. We're nothing, but traces of dreams and hopes. We're nothing and we'll take nothing with us to the grave, but the years we've lived, but the smiles we've given away, the food we ate...
Let me "turn off". And dream.

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Time for madness

It's no one business what were the most read texts.
It's no one business which were the dates that a certain thing has been written.
No one needs access to old things.

I haven't had the guts to keep on editing this blog on a tablet that keeps freaking out. I haven't had the time, the patience, the will to do so. I can try to keep it more private. I can only try and assume or delete it all in a row, that's exactly what I don't want to do. So I can only close the gates and pray for the very best. Until then, I will be around as often as I feel like writing here, hoping and praying that those older entries won't bother me.

Take a look around, if you're wanting to browse through the "Older Entries" button for hours. Maybe days. If not, enjoy what you can get.

Thursday, September 17, 2015


This is some kind of burden. I want to write and not too long ago, some words were dancing within my mind. Here I am, smoking one cigarette (another one) and with my mind going blank, without anything to write about. This is what I have been through in the last months. Except for diary entries or even one letter or another, nothing comes out of my soul through the written form.

Who can imagine what goes within my soul? I laugh, I smile, I make jokes. Rare are the people who have a little idea of whatever goes within me. Rare are the people who can see through the surface, who can notice the cold feeling of emptiness. When I stop speaking, when I stare something and my soul runs from the prison of flesh and wanders through other places, no one notices.

Who can imagine what one feels?

The night is coming to an end, as my words, so I need to leave. I need to stop for now.

Monday, August 31, 2015

In a hurry / familiar faces and conversations through the night

I do not have much time tonight. I need to put these words down in a hurry.
It matters to say that my blog keeps reminding me of how urgent it is to edit. How urgent it is to re-write certain texts, to delete a few others. Time doesn't stop. Time doesn't slows down.
I saw familiar faces. Tonight, a small group of very different people sat at a park, during the night, and the conversation went from alien life, genetically modified food, to the Nazis, anarchy and lots of other stuffs. Inside of me, there's something waking up. And now, I simply need to lay down and try to sleep.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Chris Spheeris "Rain (Eros)"

Music from the soul. A name that I have rediscovered while editing the old entries of this blog. Enjoy. And feel.

Tuesday, August 04, 2015


Good morning. Bedtime.
Seing some of my blog entries, I came to realize that some of the images that I have deleted from the albums, are disappearing from the entries. No wonder. But I am working on getting it edited. With time, I may repeat musics. With time, I may repeat images. But it's all about the words - without words, this blog would be naked. And this is the purpose of my blog: to ramble about my thoughts, about my inspiration, the source of such inspiration, about my feelings, about my desires, about love and hate, life and death.
I wonder. I wonder what's the end of all this. I do wonder what does the end means (in that "Book of Spirits" that I have read, doesn't the man says that Death isn't the end? Egyptians were pzrtially right, we're here preparing our departure for the after-death. Or for the beginning of real life). Even on that game that I was playing, "Death isn't the end". I wonder what does the end means and when will it all end.
The day has risen. Good morning.
I need to lay down and sleep. Bedtime.
I do wonder if one person ever finds peace. I wonder if there's peace at all.
The sun rises in the horizon. Wild horses run across the fields. The wind makes the high herbs to dance. Shadows wander. We've came this far and still we have nothing. They're all gone, Lord, and we have nothing. The wind is dancing with the tall summer grass.
I look around; I can't feel anyhing for anyone. Not even the sweet familiar faces mean anything to me - I loved them once, but even that is just a tiny memory. What is love, anyway? What does feelings mean, in the end?

I am wondering. I am wandering.
The world isn't what it is. It became what we made of it - hatred, death, destruction. It's ok. We're here for millenias and it has been what we've been doing ever since. It's our nature.
I feel somewhat of a call. When I think about that tiny village, that's so important to me, it feels like a call. When I think about vanishing from the city, then going to live in a tiny place in the middle of nowhere, it feel like a call from the core of my soul. It feels like a call of the wild, when I drop dead onto the desire of moving onto the countryside, with kilometers of green, mounts, wide blue or starry skies.
I am going nuts, some say.
I've neber been so sane, I believe.

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Editing. Finally, moving on.

I am finally editin' this blog's older entries. Some have just gone, others got the mistakes or the gramatical correction. Fear not. I don't either.
She was right from the very beginning and there are stuffs that simply shouldn't be on here. Perhaps, not even on my diaries. And that is why I want to get rid of what lacks real quality or meaning, of what isn't pertinent or is way too... erm, explicit?
Eventhough this last sentence could be about sexual explicit stuffs, that isn't the case... until, now. Because a few other stuffs have to disappear, vanish in the blue.

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.

It takes one moment to realize what you seek for a lifetime. It doesn't matters if you've studied your lessons, if you have tried so hard that you have felt like fainting, because it takes a very little moment to realize everything when you look at a very specific detail.
I use to think of him often. Too often, that he suddendly appeared in that place where I saw him after a few years. Since I gave up on thinking about him, he hasn't showed up again. And it was close. Oh, it was so close... (I keep to myself the secret that I have thought about you the other night. So much, but not that hard, in the hope that you showed up. Nothing. Nothing, this time.)
It takes a very little moment, a very little detail to notice that someone doesn't wants to see me or to notice that I am not "welcome" on a "small space". I am not welcome and God forbid me to feel bad for this - keep him to yourself, old disgusting man, I care not. I care no longer. I play no games, I have no time to play games. I have no patience for stupid games. It took me just a little moment to look deeper onto that little detail and to step back.
See no evil.

I keep my mouth shut. What happens. What I feel. What I realize and that flows through. What I listen from others.
I am a tomb.
I am the tomb of the secrets that everyone tells me.
I am the tomb of what secrets lie within me.
I am the tomb of those forever burning hearts, darkened with lies. Darkened with cheating.
I am the tomb of the moment where you have moaned. Where I have given you a secret and forbidden pleasure. I am your tomb.
Speak no evil.

I see everything happening. Or nearly. And I keep my mouth shut. I look aside.
I hear them speak on someone's back (the same that have given you their food). I turn myself off from the conversation.
I hear the comments they do between themselves and I shut my mind off such conversation.
I hear. And I hear not.
Hear no evil.

I care. I care not. Die. Skin each others alive. Keep living your own fantasy, of shit chatting, gossiping and of putting others down. Keep laughing at others' faces. I won't be around. I don't want to be around. I promise a visit and my good will just flushes down me as the water down the toilet. I speak not. I see not. I hear not.
Call me names. Blame my face and what beliefs your "brothers" have settled on me. Bring on the past and proudly wear it as a weapon. Bring on the hypocrisy, raise the glass and cheer to you and to all of them. I'll be looking away, as a stranger passes by the window of the cafe. I'll be looking away as people get in and get out of the buildings. I'll be looking away, to the fuming cars and motorcycles going up and down the avenue.
Say your prayers. It'll all be gone. We're all be gone and none of you will worth more than a black hole. We're all be gone and not even a memory will be left of any of us.
Say your prayers and believe in your immortality. As I slowly vanish away.

Thursday, July 23, 2015

It was about time

It was about time to start doing and speaking a bit less. So I got that Portuguese blog at the Portuguese platform.
It was about time to take the effort and the attitude: so I am doing more search, reading more, putting more effort onto what's important and leaving the games a bit aside. It's worth it. I'm ok and comfortable with it. Let me see where all this madness will lead me.
It was about time to buy stamps and to sen the letters that were delayed. Or, at least, those that I have had to give 'em a reply. Those that I wrote of my free will and whose reply to a previous letter I am still awaiting... wel, those people can wait for my ords a bit more. Words with months, irreplaceable, without anything really new or worthy time spent writing again and again.
It was about time to chose which are my priorities. Deeds are way more worthy than words. That's a fact.
It was about time. Let's fly together to outside of this wicked place that we call of comfort.

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

It's closer each passing day

I am sitting on the couch of living / dinning room and the day has already risen. Outside, the neverending cycle of people getting out of home to go to work has already begun. Some others, might be just arriving from their works. Others, might be returning from their night out partying. I am, however, sitting down on my couch, listening to music from youtube, smoking my cigarettes, eating cakes or cokies and drinking water. Lots of water.
I have spent the night doing this and that and doing nothing at all. I have spent the night checking articles online seing cute videos of animals and even one of a Nepalese boy who defended his goat pet from getting slaughtered on a sacrifice ritual (haven't I read that Nepal has a festival in honor of dogs, due to their friendship and loyalty?). In the meantime, I read an article of June about one fadista (fado singer) that was giving a free concert in Lisbon. The article was from a Portuguese website, that also has an e-mail system, blog and a whole paraphernalia of features. In the past, I have had an e-mail account there and I have been thinking on using that platform to write my thoughts there. Yes, I know I have at least three blogs, but I need to do some cleanings and corrections on here and there, so why not using a Portuguese platform during the meantime? About my words in English, I am heading towards wordpress, where I have tried toget an account too, but it seemed way complicated to me. Perhaps, today is the day that I head towards those steps an do what I have been delaying.
Every single fucking day is another day that people piss me off a bit more. It means that every fucking single fucking day I am in a bigger hurry to write and write, even if it is on my blogs, to spit blasphemies to the Gods of perfection that are most fucking humans. It's closer. It's so closer to my birthday, to my trip headed to North, to peace quiet and silence, green everywhere, mountains, lots of woods to walk through... I need to start this cleaning, editing, maintenance... choose you, Gods of fucking perfection and of fucking political and ethical correct what words suits it the best. Because it is each passing day closer. And I suspect I might start up today.

Wednesday, July 08, 2015

Saturday, July 04, 2015


Under the city lights, I walk.
On the road by my side, the cars pass by.
I stare the full moon. I'm not even there, in that moment. I am somewhere in the cosmos, except there.
I walk under the city lights.
I can't see you! Where are you?
Familiar faces. Here and there. And not always familiar, means friendly.
Night time. Thoughts fly away. Nothing matters.
The ful moon spreads it's light. If I were in the woods, the trees would be killers or traps. Shadows could be spirits appealed by any kind of offering. Aliens to study anatomy. If I were in the woods, I would be nothing more than a little worm.
I feel and my feelings go to waste. I feel and everything burns.
What calls the past? And what's wrong than being our own views portraited what bothers us the most? What calls the past, worst than that?
I see. I feel. I try to survive. But I am so lost. Lord, I feel so lost.

Monday, June 08, 2015

Silence (without words to say or to write)

All hail.
All hail the world. All hail the waves of the Ocean. All hail the countless stars in the night sky (including those who are dead already and whose light we still see). All hail the Winter breeze and the Summer heat. All hail the wind. All hail the thunder.
Pass by me. Pass by me as I close my eyes. Pass by me, as we notice each others' presence, but I still fade my mind away. Pass by me, a spectrum of another world. Passing ghosts, weeping prayers in the city's air.
I see you all. All of you are seing me. I fly onto another world and I live on a dream land.
No words. No words to be said.
All hail the silence.

Thursday, June 04, 2015

You are what you do of yourself

There isn't much I want to write about. The last times have been critical with the lack of ideas andit is hell even to write a simple letter. I can not write. I am going mad.
I came home from work about one hour ago - I am working in a cafe where I have been a costumer for years and where so much life has been lived (a few comments on an old video on Facebook have made some bittersweet memories pop out). The work has been kind of tedious tonight, but it has been cool. It is always cool, even when it's not. In the end, staying pissed off at situations that I cannot control, staying pissed off at people that are merely my cpstumers is worthless. My time, my patience and mental sanity are way more precious than all of those people and moments.
I am smoking a cigarette, sitting on my large sofa, while the tv passes a supposed horror movie. The muted tv keeps me company and that's it - instead, I could be at the window, feeling the wind on my face, as the smoke vanished in the air. Or I could have made it t the gas station to have a coffee in the dawn, watching strangers passing by, buying their cigarettes, going to work or the discos. I am home instead.
I also could be in a lover's bed. One of those countless lovers that I get as pne night stands, simply because I don't want to get emptionally attached to anyone. If I suffer with my loneliness, it's merely my fault. I have chosen it this way, becauseI have loved too much once, to realize I wasn't more than a simply desire - and now I see YOU and I feel more important than what I have believed at first. And I feel there's anythong stronger between us. So,ething stronger than Heaven or Hell, than Time itself. Perhaps, it's not your fault that I run away from feelings and from emotional affection (is this even the right word?) Perhaps, it's me hiding from the world, hiding from myself, hiding from what I know that might be stronger than I can dream of, stronger than what I remember, stronger than what I can handle, than what I want to handle. In the end, love is merely good for poetry - all the rest is flesh. And moans. And sweat.

I am trying to figure out a way out of here. I am trying to figure out a way to reset all the original settings. But thereis o other way than going ahead and work with what I have, with have I have left.
I am sitting here. And there isn't much more that I can do now. Except to continue to listen to some music, to enjoy the world wide web, on what this wicked and madened tablet allows me to. I can't even go to my bed to use the Internet, as the sign is to weak to get in my room.
One day after another. And I keep building myself up.
One day after another.

Sunday, May 31, 2015

I need to get out of this wicked city - forever

Almost two years have gone by since we've been at that wedding where this music (as well as a few others from ERA) was played. The lunch and the party, in the middle of nowhere... mountains from Portugal, wide blue sky and the perfect song. The perfect songs. Amazing company. Amazing day.
Time is flying and no one is noticing it. Time is flying and I keep noticing the weird things in life, that some would only think that they happened on movies of all kinds, including some pornographic stuffs. It is real, my people, that some crazy nuts stalk other people, that straight men seek comfort in the body of gay men, that mothers don't care about their kids and publish online hiw much do they miss such children. This is real life when someone shoots a firegun in the middle of the street, when we're forced to chose other ways to walk, other paths, that we seek peace through the brutality of the world and that we keep trying to comfort ourselves through others' disgrace.
I can see nothing but the green mountains of my abandoned old village, where my grand parents from mum's side were from (if you can read Portuguese and you've read my entryon the other blog, you'll notice that I am repeating this need of mine of that place). I am needing that wide blue sky or the wide night sky, with millions of stars, many of them already dead; I am needing the loneliness of the countryside; I am needing my time and space... lots of space, that the voices of the city seem to continuosly shrink.
Tonight has been a nice and busy night at the cafe. Some tension has been felt, but nothing like a good laugh and a good hug. Tonight, I have almost had to carry a drunken friend home. And seing him throwing up like the girl from "The Exorcist" movie was kinda odd.
I am leavong it by now. I am leaving it here, because the day has risen and troubles might start up soon. I am still awaken and goddammn tired - physically, mentally and spiritualy tired. But I smile. I keep smiling and no one knows... and no one really cares...

Friday, May 29, 2015

No, nothing

Those have been terrible weeks to write - I try and I keep trying and I am constantly failing.
I have plans. I have so many plans to do a wide variety of stuffs, to change a large number of things and nothing seems to ever change. Nothing seems to ever be done. And I do. I keep doing, but it's still not enough.
No. There's nothing to be said - not even about you, sweetheart. Today was the day that I have made one comment about you to someone - or so I hope. Will you be there tonight?! Will you ever be there, other than just the fair nice costumer at the cafe, other than just a smiling and nice, yet mysterious guy?
No. There isn't anything else to be said.
Nothing at all.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015


Whatever I could have wanted to say or to, is officially dead. Inside of me, the myst of darkness comes softly. So softly, that it hits so hard andno one ever seems able to understand or to recognize me. It's ok. I'll be ok.
The myst of darkness comes with sunny days, grey days, sunny days that turn into grey days. The thunderstorm is promised for a while now, but nothing until now. Maybe today. Maybe tonight.
She speaks and speaks and she seems to doesn't understand I do not care. Stay away. Go meet your friends - maybe they're working this afternoon? They seem to be putting aside. That's ok, the task to move along is easier for me.
I look away and my mond drifts from one issue to another. They come by, they show some support and bring me some "future and hypotetical food". Junk food has never ever been good to anyone, but even the best ones can be kinda "junky" from times to times.
I feel trapped in a huge trap - Universe itself playing it's usual games?! Any God or Goddess creating new stories on His / Her novel?! Tracing new lines on His / Her mad sketches? Who knows?!
Sunny days are bringing me the darkest desires of Winter nights. Winter nights brougt me the desires of long Summer nights.
I am feeling lost... I'm feeling so lost, that it's hard for me to recognize the face in the mirror. And this brutal truth, is leading me onto and through brutal & living Hell. Keep goin', mad soul, Hell's not endless.

Sunday, April 05, 2015

What you find via snail-mailing /'s groups

Another Birth, by the Persian poet and film maker, Forough Farrokhzad.
My whole being is a dark chant
which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.

Life is perhaps

 a long street through which a woman holding
 a basket passes every day

Life is perhaps

a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.

Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette

in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment

when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
 which I will put into the Moon's impression
 and the Night's perception.

In a room as big as loneliness

my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.


this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.

I will plant my hands in the garden

I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.

I shall wear

a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.

There is an alley

     which my heart has stolen
     from the streets of my childhood.

The journey of a form along the line of time

inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror

And it is in this way

that someone dies
and someone lives on.

No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook

which empties into a pool.

I know a sad little fairy

who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

Monday, March 16, 2015

Where will it take me?!

Without ideas and feeling unable to write. I don't feel like writing anything, here or anywhere else. Blogging or simply rambling about what's going on within my mind. Things have gone too far. Things are now too broken to be fixed and that makes my heart bleed... it bleeds non-sense. It bleeds non-stop. And even such bleeding is no reason for me to start writing and rambling and crying through written words.
In times, I'd say my art was everything I had left of me. Nowadays, there isn't a single thing I can look at and recall as of my own.
The game has gone back to the beginning. The challeng has just re-started. I thought I was saving her some new effort and he we are, back to the beginning. She'll feel sad. I'll feel sad to see her disapointed face. I love you. Forgive me.
The sun shines in the cold streets of the city. Later on, when I decide to walk back home, I will look around and will imagine extraordinary thng to write about. It's worthless - as soon as I arrive home, everything had just vanishe from my mind and my imagination has just gone blank. What can I do?
I dream and I fantasize about too many things. But dreams and fantasies aren't enough without a little bit of effort. Where will it take me?!

Monday, March 02, 2015

Dreaming of his memories

I am dreaming of castles. Old, old castles, forts in wars of tremendous proportions. I can imagine the knights coming down the hill. The door of an old church opens to host a wounded and brave man, knwon for countless things - his darker secrets are kept by those who know, love and worship him,as a God.
The old temples. The huge rainforest ahead, where the temple is "lost". The chant is still calling, but this isn't the time to go ahead yet.
The time is here and now. An old world, full of destruction, hatred, technology that only helps to spread the hate. Cars spilling oil and black smoke to the atmosphere. He remembers while he takes a look onto the people walking down there, in the enormous avenue. And while hE takes a look onto the passing people, all those events come accross my memory.
He lives inside of me. He knows what he is made of - so he sends me beautiful stories to be written and still I haven't written them.

Monday, February 16, 2015

It has been a while

I have had somewhat of a block that has been stopping me from posting any lines - I feel like I can not write anything else than a simple letter. And even to write letters, I am putting huge efforts on it.
I am sitting on a nearly empty cyber-shop. I am listening to some music and enjoying my moment. I am checking my Twitter, trying to decide what (not) to do. I am trying to write, but I interrupt my writing to see anything else quite often - it's OK. It's always OK to get whatever I am doing interrupted.
It has been a while and some stuffs have been changing. I am opening myself to some new possibilities. And due to such "possibilities", I am interrupting myself again - for moments, I have forgoten that i should send a text message, instead of doing anything online. But it's OK. It's always OK.
There isn't much to be said. In fact, I wonder if I have evber had anything to say at all. I'm fine. But being fine isn't enough. Nothing seems to be enough.

"We're hard to please, aren't we?" asked Erin, during our chat on Facebook last night.
Yes, we are. Or I am, at least. I am always struggling with what I am thinking and I am always struggling with what I am feeling.
Lately, I've been wondering if people do understand what do I mean when I write about my thoughts or about my feelings. I feel like many people wouldn't reach the level of intelligence it takes to understand the meaning of my words, when I speak and type about my feelings and about my thoughts. People wouldn't dare to try to feel what I feel - and believe me that I feel way too much more than what I speak or type about.
It has been a while since I have been here to write. It has been a while since I spoke or wrote about my deepest feelings, because I fear to burst in tears. It has been a while since I've allowed myself to cry - I cried four months ago, at the funeral of a friend and eventhough I do remember about him and speak about, I haven't spoken much about what lies within me.

"We are hard to please, aren't we?".
It's been a while...
Thank you!

Monday, January 26, 2015

I need to write

He keeps talking to me. He keeps offering me beautiful stories, with beautiful verses: both prose and poetry, he gives to me.
I need to get over my barriers. You've said it before, my dear friend, but it takes much more than words written down on a letter or than words spoken at someone's ears, for that person (a.k.a. me) to realise it.
He keeps talking. And the things that I see, the things that I read... The things they share with me, the things he shares with me... I need to write. Write, write, write!!!
Stop giving out any excuses and just write!