Tea thesis

I'm not an easy-talking person. I know it. Even I feel comfortable with silence, I used to talk and joke around just to make people notice me. A stupid way of doing so, since I know several quiet people whose absence is felt. And I can't deal with people that don't care a little bit. It's called self love, perhaps? Extra sensibility? Thanks mother nature, for making me so well equiped.

I selected one or two folks - not the best matches, but those who can hear me. And that understand. And I end up understanding them to. And helping. And changing my plans, not easy for me to do. Getting less shallow and moving on.

Today I'm not that "I don't need it" Ed. Today I need to talk. I don't need to directly talk to someone. I never needed. I just need to make it flow, to drop the bomb. It doesn't mean the bomb has to kill people; maybe I just need to talk, without a particular aim. I just need to fill the time between the sips of hot lemon tea, is it true? I don't usually have hot drinks, but I am sick. My nose is sick, my throat is sick, my head is sick, my stomach is sick. I could go and play guitar. Or bass. Or play Sims. Or make myself busy searching for stuff for sale online - et voilá, consumption happiness that lasts 5 minuts. I could also study. Study stuff that my teachers would want me to. For my own good.

And I thank them, because this is my problem. I can do so much. Too much - I end up doing nothing. A bit here, a bit there. It's like building a house, but only working on Sundays. Or holidays. A brick here, bit of cement there. "It's built" - like Housemartins said? No, it's not.

Then, there is time. It keeps on floating. Floating is the best word, because that's all that time insists to do with me. Plus, it's in a hurry. I can barely stand its pace. And I can't certainly predict it. I have to wait for time to arrive - do I? But time doesn't need to wait for me. That's unfair.

Why is that unfair? Why should it be? We created the concept of time. Nature created the concept of cycle. We played the trick and it turned against us. I mean, we would die anyway, but with less contemplations. With less fears, perhaps? I bet the human being can always find something.

I could go on. But I'm entering a dangerous field. I'm not even certain that we created the concept of time. Or if we can distinguish it that easily from the concept of cycle. We can feel both, perhaps? We can feel what our language makes us feel. I think I'm not prepared for this and I probably didn't deliver great news or great knowledge. I'm too young - now THAT has to do with time. I'm not skilled, I'm not powerful. I'm just an observer that is slowly trying to fit.

Paz

Gentis carícias do conforto do não sentir, da segurança da distância que entorpece e que clarifica mantêm a alma tépida e placidamente tranquila.

A noite não cai sobre os ombros como fardo pesado de saudade e de vício; isso fica para almas mundanas comuns. A noite é o vento e o vento é a noite que empurra todas as peças que não encaixam, as peças que foram forçadas e que magoaram sem proveito.

As memórias não congelam, mas espreitam por trás do cortinado espesso das portadas que cobrem os olhos, demasiado dispersas para se tornarem inconvenientemente em pânico, medo ou falta.

Sinto que não me sinto, sinto uma casa de trancas fortes, fria e insípida como uma salada por temperar que me irá manter saudável o corpo, vegetante a alma. Até que novamente as trancas, fortes por pura ilusão, sejam forçadas novamente e o sangue volte a produzir a sonora cascata latejante do costume.

Quando isso acontecer, "help me to make it". It's a "consequence of what you do to me".

S

O cabelo dela era como um bilião de círculos de negra sumptuosidade que se entrecruzam entre si. Despreocupada sumptuosidade, à espera que a pálpebra se abra para que o olho a procure.

O estímulo demora, habilmente escondido na monotonia do ter e nas brincadeiras para adultos que se marcam nessa agenda mortal, ainda que aparentemente infinita. Demora, como uma hora ou como um mês, como um canto de ave ou como as fases de crescimento de um fruto humano.

As nossas preces nascem dele, o suspirar de cada dia o seu sintoma. O relógio de parede que fez súbita amizade com o antiquário de memórias e fotografias antigas atraiçoa o fluir ingénuo e indolor do tempo. Trava-o com constantes paragens, constantes análises que nos levam a outro tipo de ilusão, outro tipo de objectivo: não o da concretização do mesmo, mas o da importância do ser e da dimensão da carne, do sangue, dos ossos.

Tudo isto despoletado por geometricamente banais círculos.

Vaguear

Os cinzeiros estão cheios, o chão à espera de ser varrido pelo empregado sonolento, de honesta má disposição que apenas quer fechar o estabelecimento. As cervejas fazem linhas que se entrecruzam nas mesas, todas iguais, simbolizando um tipo qualquer de ocupação do tempo ou de elevação artificial do espírito para as massas.

Pela rua, sigo as pedras de calçadas, conto-as e reparo num passar do tempo diferente, num tempo que me absorve a consciência, a vaguidão da vida. As passas do cigarro marcam o ritmo, o brilho laranja de cada travo a luz do caminho; o fumo, como migalhas de Hansel e Gretel - sigam a vida citadina e cheia de modas.

Rangem as solas das all-star que ninguém vê no escuro, à medida que palmilham um caminho falsamente certo, mas que não leva a lado nenhum. Tudo é passeio, tudo é fogo de artifício que ilude os meus olhos vermelhos de ser ébrio, as minhas pestanas coladas de quem chorou as certezas que julgou ter na monotonia de um ciclo.

Sente-se na noite o ar vago, a luz difusa, a rua deserta. Assim que estou sozinho, é assim que me sinto: pele e roupa, frágil, engolida pela mesma esfera de sempre, que mete medo, que mete desespero. Acende-se mais um cigarro até ao conforto de um lar que não me espera mais a mim do que a qualquer homem perdido, animalesco, moribundo.

Cup of coffee

A cup of coffee won't solve, for my problem isn't the tired eye or the head that pulses like the drums of the songs passing by. No. A mess like this isn't solved with a simple, ordinary coffee. Coffee is an excuse for extra determination, an illusional pause. Just like a cigarette or a walk or a chocolate cookie. A placebo effect. The wind outside comes into my mind and becomes far more important than the thoughts I was having before. It got control, it took over the situation, it made me get lost. More lost. Again. And again, and again. No GPS would help, because I know which routes I can use, I know exactly where I am. It doesn't drive for me, it won't do the unstuck. And minutes tickle, cry where they used to sing. It's a great cliché to say that the same thing can be devastatingly beautiful or horrid ugliness depending on its intensity. And still, that's why I can hate me. I can hate us. I can hate you. A caress, a word, is like an input: it needs processing. It needs loading. It will begin a war, a war which devastation isn't seen but felt. No wrecked building. No crying people. I don't cry. I barely complain. That's why I hate me. That's why I hate people. I hate me because people hate me and they hate me because I don't look alike. I don't fit. I don't match. I have to hear and I won't react. It's easier to make sense with small sentences. The words won't lose grip, the fingers jump from key to key as if they already had this speech in mind. Obviously, it isn't a speech. I can't speak. That's what people say, that's what people think. I'm the guilty, I am the crippled. I'm am the one who has to listen but won't ever feel like anyone listens to him. Well, being a bit unfair now. It seems I have my concentration back. Solved it isn't, but it wasn't meant to be. Flaws are everywhere and if I was the only one the world would be perfect. And it is. There comes the wind again...hope it doesn't vanish. This stream, cascade, huge word-puking, of words that are barely analized.

For good

"And I...would never hate you...but you're hard to love". And when I mean love, I meant friendship. You want it all for you and you can't accept that people are changing and making new connections. You can't accept that now I won't be the grammar nazi that is going backwards to see if he mispelled something. I won't go back to see what failed, because nothing failed. This was a natural process - people, like the seasons, come and go. You're a rotten apple, waiting for the tree to pick you up again. Rotten inside, because you thought I didn't care anymore. It's just that, like a tree, I'm too stiff, too inflexible (fuck collocations). I can't go and talk to you, because I didn't do anything wrong. I'm a better person, but still I can't talk. I will grow other apples, you'll be consumed by the dust and the wind and I'll just watch silently and sad. If you'd just think twice...you'd see I was always there. I never treat you wrong. I tried, but I couldn't reach your point. Even I am nonsense. You shouldn't try to explain things with lies. Goodbye.

Nonsense

Longe passou o inverno subtil das roupas quentes e pausado na descoberta. Quase chega o Verão, de corpos desnudos, é certo, mas que escorrem suor ordinário sob a pele que agora se vê manchada dos tecidos e vasos e sangue e células da vida. Afastamo-nos do olfacto peculiar das roupas coladas ao suor e ao corpo e ao ar fervente e urgente. Aparecem a acenar, como em hipopótamos que sobem civilizadas calçadas de verão, pernas que colossalmente tremem do impacto no chão, furadas da casca de laranja que não escapa à sociedade contemporânea. Tremem as t-shirts de marca, as t-shirts sem marca e as t-shirts marcadas pelo suor, pelos logotipos, pelo decote em V ou em Z. Marcam-se as barrigas - queiramos olhar - em peças que esvoaçam a lata e o bem estar, a tentativa de não conter o medo da rejeição, da coca-cola e croissant au chocolat despachados na maior segurança do "eu quero, posso e mando" que facilmente se transforma em subserviência servil aos desejos da alma e dos outros. Não fazer sentido, fazer calor, as árvores choram pólens que me afectam o cérebro, a escrita e a pontuação. Regressa assim o calor deste blog.

Skin thief

Long bloody war shall we fight in the strong airs of the sea, the land of the adventurous, of the power, of the virility!

Shall I bomb your nasty lack of courage with my love for the lady, thus you'll be left in the loser's side. Shall I forget the honour you stole her, shall I forget the hatred for the mundane flesh, whose soul sometimes likes to caress others than the prisioner of her heart.

No, it's not jealousy, it's the will to fight the enemy and to earn the crown. Everybody settles for the master, for the strenght, for the wisdom, though shall it not be enough to contain the weakness of the skin.

Fera

Let the cold of the icelands take the kingdom of your heart and rip the mercy that runs through your veins.

Fear for no one, feel no guilt because you're just a worthy knight of the human race - a relentless hollow animal. The wounds are just to the flesh, your sacrifice only for power, glory, revenge!

Let no one win you, let no one live with unscathed honor after tearing down your will and your fate - to be the ruler of your desires, of your sin-soothing steps.

Maybe not. Maybe yes. I can't decide, ever.

How I wanted to be the pages of your diary, so I could inhale the smoky thoughts of your tough little mind. How I'd like to go from page to page and to go back again, to link all the ink and to know you to the bones.

No. I'd like to know no words. I don't want the bullshit, just the medicine to the pain, the arrow to the heart. Understanding, silly concept. It must be wrong.

How can I possibly want to find the under-sea treasures of your waters if I can't even sink in mine without drowning?

Mend it for me, paper. Mend it. I'll try once again. I may change the ink, I may move on some pages. I'll fail again, I'll smudge all the history like I always do. But please,mend it.