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J'aimais tout.
J'aimais toutes les petites choses.
Mais surtout ses yeux.
Et maintenant, tout me manque.
Comment les choses peuvent-elles être aussi différentes en aussi peu de temps?
Je m'en rappelle encore de nous journées légères d'été.
En effet, c'est comme ça que je me suis toujours sentie avec toi: légère.
Tu étais léger. Tu me faisais du bien comme une brise fraîche dans une journée chaude. Et tes mains moites étaient ma source de chaleur en hiver.
Tu m'as toujours fait du bien. Tu étais le bien. Tu étais beau.
On était beau.
Alors, comment peux-tu tout oublier ça? Comment peux-tu oublier la douceur? La chaleur? Les fois où j'ai été là pour toi?
J'aurais tout fait pour toi. Je resterai ici. Je ne partirai jamais. Je tiendrais toujours ta main - moites ou pas.
Mais tu l'as choisi. Tu choisis le nouveau. Ce qui n'est pas atteint. Tu laisses aller toute la légèreté... tu apportes de la lourdeur. Et une lourdeur insoutenable. La lourdeur de regarder mon amour s'échapper de mes mains, lentement...
Et il amène avec lui mes brises d'été. Et ma chaleur de l'hiver.
Et ses yeux.
Et toutes les petites choses.

Et tout.

Figurinha da copa

Eu coleciono amores.

Não acho que seja um defeito. Não posso escapar: amo muito. E amo forte.

São como pequenos botões, que guardo em uma gaveta com muito carinho.
São como pequenos traços de tinta, pequenas flores que nascem no meu jardim, pequenas gotas de chuva... um pequeno aperto de dor.

Cada um de meus amores faz parte de mim, eu gosto de carregá-los na minha bolsa quando vou passear. Às vezes um deles volta e uma lembrança perfumada faz meu coração apertar: a que saudades dos seus beijos...

E quando vejo uma foto, quando sinto seu cheiro, quando sonho com você: ah que saudades do meu primeiro amor.
Que saudades desse botão
Dessa cor
Desse aperto
Da pra gente se ver? Só mais uma vez? Vem ser meu amor, mais uma vez, vai.
Somos dois botões diferentes agora, eu sei, somos gente grande, vai ser diferente e a mesma coisa ao mesmo tempo!

Eu amo minha coleção, não troco por nada, não.
Pois foi cada um de meus botões que fez meu jardim florescer.

Afterlife.

 Je suis prise entre deux mondes.

Entre dois mundos.

Is it possible to be happy even when your heart belongs nowhere?

Déchirée. Sempre fui dramatica.


Perhaps, I have no choice but to be unhappy.

But lately, life has no meaning to me. «Life is an dead end»: I think to myself as I watch a video of an old man wishing his wife goodbye minutes before she passed away. They must have lived the most incredible life. They must have had what everyone wants to have: a long life full of love. Yet, they do not seem happy. Why would they? She cries as she realizes that she is fading away - after a few minutes, she will only cease to exist.

Why is this so terrifying?!

Jostein Gaarder once wrote: «Would I have elected to live a life on earth in the firm knowledge that I’d suddenly be torn away from it, and perhaps in the middle of intoxicating happiness?»

You have everything, yet, everything is taken away from you.

Is life worth living?

Lately, I feel like I have no choice but to be unhappy.

I feel slaved by my urges and fears. Fear of dying, of being unhappy, of regretting. Quand je suis dans ce monde, je ne pense qu’à l’autre. Devrais-je passer ma vie si loin des entités qui j’aime? Suis-je en train de prodiguer mon précieux temps avec des êtres qui ne me retournent pas leur amour? E quando estou nesse mundo, só penso ao outro. Eu devia estar vivendo. Vi-ven-do. Intensamente. Abrir meus olhos, e saber que vivo. Fazer coisas inesquecíveis. A cada dia.

Well, I have no choice but to be unhappy.

But could this unhappiness bring

hope?

Je suis… estou… torn apart.

Acreditar

dans un

Afterlife.

Warning

I am a prisoner since I was born. I have always lived in this enormous box of glasses. I am kept under watch. They observe me, continuously. I have no chance to scape. I am doomed to this meaningless life. I am condemned to see time pass by outside. Sometimes I sit at one of the edges of the box, and I just watch the extramural life. I cannot help but wonder: why am I here?


 They feed me once in a while. This edible material perhaps does not deserve to be called food. The torrid, entirely dehydrated cubes stick in my tongue as I struggle to chew. Occasionally, I am enslaved to cry out for a mere meal. I am forced to witness their feast. The saliva drips in my mouth, and as in a desperate move I attempt to reach a paltry slice of their food’s remains, I am firmly punished.


Every once in a while, they take me away. They test me. They measure me. I clash to run away, but there is no use. They vex me. Once, after one of these visits, I woke up to find myself emasculated. Outrageous.


Their psychological, and yet extremely cruel game will not get through me. I do not belong here. I must be free. I claim for freedom. I urge for revenge. I will no longer be mister Kitty. I will no longer be a simple- what do they call it? - cat.


I will be their worst nightmare.

Fall

It has been three years since I wrote the first version of the text. There are a few things that are still the same. Yet, I decided to post this again with a couple of changes.

 *

 You can see the orange leaves in the ground if you look down, and the almost empty trees if you look up. Look around and you will see the houses, with the skeletons and the pumpkins starring back at you. And if you look closer, you will notice that the usual raindrops are whiter.

Sometimes, it’s hard to realize that I’m actually here: it seems that if I open my eyes I will just face my old town’s streets. Instead, I see this large avenue with the city lights still on, even this late.

I must hold myself not to pinch my arm: why does this looks so much like a dream? I’ve been in Quebec for more than a year and a half now, but it seems like yesterday I was in Brazil. Time flies, and here… well, so do I.

 *

 The phrases in French gather in my head like a puzzle. Never a headache at the end of the day felt so pleasant. Never a language felt so natural.

It is easy to feel lonely. To have people around you, yet, to be alone. To think too much. Should I be here?

 My daily routine: to learn and the cold weather. And love. And warm. And home. I can tell: now, this is my home.

*

 School is still school, boredom is still boredom, I’m still me. I stick with the drama, the urge to enjoy life and the curiosity. Mixed with French, it’s not a surprise that I’ve never felt so poetic in my whole life.


If I miss my parents and friends in Brazil? No, I don’t miss them. The word “miss”, in English, in a certain way, means “lose”, “lack of something”. But I don’t feel that way. I never “loose” them. I know where they are: waiting and cheering for me. And there’s no one missing: knowing they are waiting is enough.

 But I have “saudades”. For those that don’t know, “saudades” is a word that only exist in Portuguese and has no immediate translation in other languages. Saudades is a feeling of nostalgia, is yearning, is a state of spirit, a little pain in the chest you feel when you are far away from someone you love. So, I don’t miss the people from Brazil. I have saudades of them.

 *

 I’ve made so many extraordinary things until now, so I can only affirm: I don’t mind if the leaves fall, and the snow afterwards. I don’t mind the falling tears. Or falling (even more) in love. Or falling apart. Cause it’s a lovely fall. Even the season.

MC: I love detangling necklaces when they get all twisted up from being in someone’s bag.

I think books are very similar to necklaces . . . each word of a well-crafted novel is a bead or jewel that, when chosen carefully and strung in the right order, can create a scene that’s beautiful, or ugly, or so sad, it moves a reader to tears. Writers, like jewelry makers, have the power to create order out of a chaotic universe. I love turning chaos into order.

Veneno

4h27 du matin.

C’est toujours à 4 heures du matin. Ou 3. La fin de la nuit, le début d'un jour. Ça dépend: étais-je réveillé les dernières heures ou pas?

4h27 du matin. Aujourd’hui, ça. Mon corps est fatigué mais mes pensées sont un tourbillon. J’ai envie de parler, écouter, j’ai envie de me faire regarder les lèvres pendant que je les mord. Oui, j’ai envie de toucher la peau, fixer mes yeux - regarder, juste regarder, et sentir. Sentir un sens à la fois, ou tous les sens d’un coup. J’ai l’envie des gens. Juste interagir. Je me sens prise dans les heures que je passe seul. C’est ça! - suis-je seule? C’est de la solitude ce qui passe à travers mon esprit, retombe dans mon âme, et qui me réveille en plein milieu de la nuit en chouchoutant à l’oreille le manque que les gens me font? Serait-ce juste le besoin naturel d’humain? Ou une douleur dans le cœur mal soignée?

Je veux la cure. Mais à quoi ça sert vouloir la cure si vous ne savez pas dans quel poison votre sang est coulé - oui, le poison soluté et mon sang solvant dans cette solution saturée que j’appelle corps. Je veux de la beauté dans la laideur. Un souffle dans l’étouffement. Une vie dans un cadre morbide.

Soyez ça. Soyez ma cure. Soyez la raison du pourquoi je me réveille à 4h27 du matin

Paradise

The sun was near the mountains. But life was such a dream that she couldn't tell if it was a sunset or a sunrise. She just loved how the colours incrementally changed to each other in the sky.
There was a sea in front of her. But life was so heavenly she couldn't tell if it was a sea of flowers or a sea of actually water. She was just stunned by how soft the waves crashed in her knees.
She closed her eyes, and started to think of the most beautiful things she was capable of. But life was so perfect she was not sure if it was reality or imagination.
She just didn't care.
When she opened them again, she was lying down, starring at the sky. It was suddenly night, and each star smiled, each shooting star waved, and the aurora borealis was the new sea in front of her.
Everything reminded her dreams. Reminded her of every single world she created. Every single book she read, every single feeling she had. Every single tear... but now colorful, rainbow-like tears. Tears made of blue nostalgia, violet naivety and red lovingness.
The tears fell down and transformed her hair, tied in two braids, in an iridescent color, that painted the wind. As the tears burned her cheek, all she could think of was:
"This is Paradise".

Tijolo

Estou cansada de ter de fazer escolhas. Estou cansada do monótono, das repetições, dos ciclos, do começo, meio e fim. Sem figuras de falácias, como cobras que mordem seus próprios rabos. Não quero favorecimentos nem injustiças, meias palavras ou meias perdidas, nem meia porção disso meia boca. Quero algo novo e permanente. Algo concreto. Nada de ciclos. Nada de repetições. Quero algo criativo. Algo original. Algo que dure. Indestrutível, incontestável. Algo que surpreenda.

Tu és

Por entre cores aparentes no display, acabo selecionando uma que me leva à algo que me irrita. Não por ele em si, mas pela suas palavras. Sempre disse - e digo - que palavras são importantes. Mas não são reais, e acabam se tornando traiçoeiras por nos seduzirem tão facilmente, ludibriando-nos em suas mentiras. Eis a questão porque odiei o blog: li palavras falsas. Teu conteúdo? Drama, pessimismo e auto-piedade. Tudo que tu mais me julgavas por ser. Pelo menos eu não me incluo nos terríveis erros gramaticais dos teus textos. Tuas palavras fazem sentido, e não vou mentir - teus textos seriam bons, se eu não soubesse a ideia por trás deles. Mas eu a conheço, e a hipocrisia contida então, me enoja. Teus pensamentos excessivamente negativos e dramáticos me abominam. E nem eu mesma creio na criancice de isso me afetar, afinal, nas minhas próprias palavras: 'Já se passou tanto tempo, pra que pensar nisso?' Mas o fato é que, apesar de ter te esquecido completamente, eu ainda penso em ti como um canalha e ponto. E me desculpe amor, mas porque tu ainda existes? Como se tu fosses o único que achasse cigarros e cafés poéticos.