Angel Alucard

Já nasceu o dia. E eu sem dormir. Pensar demais. Fumar demais. Querer e ansiar demais. Já nasceu o dia...

Two articles from "The Guardian", about handwriting, penpaling, keeping diaries and how all of that got lost with all the greatest technological "invasion" in our lives. Pens are dead. Paper is dead. Handwriting is a relic. The lost art of handwriting.

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 delightin...

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...

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. Creatures. 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.

A noite tem sido de chuva, tem sido de trovoada. A tarde tem sido de chuva, rodeado de amigos. Ouvimos a trovoada de dentro do carro, vemos os relâmpagos por cima de nós. Fuma-se. Aproveita-se mais um pouco da noite. Sinto-me só. Em nada as minhas escolhas, nem as minhas acções influenciaram, por bem,  a minha vida. Não é hora de tomar uma atitude? Não é hora de mexer-me, deixar de adiar as coisas? Não é hora de acreditar que, mal eu me mexa, o que está errado torna-se em certo, por fruto da minha acção e do meu esforço? Não está na hora de parar de ser medroso (e, talvez, merdoso) e provar-lhes que estão errados? Talvez já tenha acalmado a tempestade. Que chova. Será auxílio à minha jornada. Resisitirei. Eu olho o mundo, altivo e com desdém. Olho de longe, o mundo de que me afastei, as fobias e os complexos que ganhei, por conta do (imenso) decréscimo da minha audição e do tempo em que estive sem aparelho, dificultando imenso a minha comunicação com os outros. Olho o mundo e tenho...

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...

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.

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?

Porque raio não vi o e-mail?! Pensei que ficasse concluído tudo assim, online. Será que eu sou tão mau assim? Um passo em frente. Dois atrás. Entendo-te. Mas não me deixarei abater assim.

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.

A minha banda favorita. Um dos seus melhores álbuns. E um tributo em piano. Nada melhor para terminar a noite e dormir.

Just listen. And feel. This. Is. Amazing!

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!!!

Entendo que nada entendo, que, num dia até gosto da ideia e, no seguinte, nem quero pensar na mesma. Frases. Ao invés de todo um texto, pequenas frases também servem para nos exprimirmos. E é isso que tenho feito esta noite. Medo. Paranóia. Nervos. Vontade de chorar. Solidão.

"Ao largo ainda arde a barca da fantasia, o meu sonho acaba tarde, deixa a alma de vigia (...) acordar é que eu não queria"