"Sweet heart, bitter heart, now I can't tell you apart..."

Sadness soaks and chokes the life out of you
When really, life should be permanently invited in.
But you don't invite sadness
And neither do you expect it.

It comes in bunches, instead.

She sung about miniature disasters
She played about minor catastrophes
And I am living proof that they will bring you to your knees.
No amount of patience, bravery or introspective thinking will make it go away.

Because it comes in bunches - it's bad.

There is a cure and it hangs in the skies
She blows the clouds around a twinkly dot of hope.
You become curious and enthralled and wonder if it's just a plane
The cure is that which whispers to you that the dot is indeed a star.

So yes, it comes in bunches.
It's sad and bad and messes with your head.
I'm still crawling on my knees, tearful and sore
But because of that star last night... I'm not dead!

Dead in the body and dead in the soul
Are the far ends of (at least my) reality.
I don't want either for anyone
But if the choice is to be made, let it be the first over the latter always and forever.

Soul.
"She's in Heaven and Heaven is in our hearts,"
I was told by a six-year-old.
Out hearts and souls beg us for Peace, Love and Humanity.

Believe in stars.
Choose life for the soul.
Keep the sky in your hearts.
Your head's still on fire, your body is still sore, and your eyes still leak.

But how would you otherwise know and feel you're still alive?
You're still alive.
We're still alive.
Don't look for who shot the arrow - follow it and look for the target instead.

Nothing makes sense if not thought about at the right time.
The right time is not previously scheduled, but comes in random bunches to balance out Sadness.
With a heavy head, sore bones and liquid eyes I hereby beg you:
Don't foll around while you wait for the "right time".

Instead, I lower myself from my kneeling to throw myself at your feet and make an honest suggestion.
While the right time to think doesn't come to your life
Live in Peace, Love and Humanity.
The "right time" has a will of its own and surpasses mortality; your personal expiration date does not.

You make people hurt when you pound at our doors.
We hear your subtle whispers, there is no need to add to the Noise.
Talk.
Just talk to me.

*

Why not?

Peace, love, safety, happiness, warmth, earth, wind, fire, water, spirit, moon, stars, smells... and a weirdly prophetic dream, as the cherry on top. Then waking up to feel lazily divine, after sleeping with the feeling I was not alone in my room. There. That's where I'll stop.

I will not go blind. This is a new beginning, however little and seemingly insignificant. Because it all starts from withing, don't it? :)

Colour me free indeed. Allow me to have beautiful mornings every morning and let the world shine as bright as it did/does today forever. It IS all in the eyes of the beholder, so let me be a clean, blissful, peace&love beholder. No lies, no cheating, no drama, no unnecessary or evil intoxicants.

Peace, love, and blessed be.

*

Fkldçajs

I want you (tam tam tam tam tam)
I want you so baaaad (tam tam tam)
I want yoouuuu (tam tam tam tam)
I want you so baaaad it's driving me mad, it's driving me mad.

Hahah okay. I might be going mad after all. All your fault, with your pale blue eyes (don't start singing again) and your fasdjfaç. What is it about you? Shitttt how this sucks.

I love how you say love. I love how you say just about anything. Me and accents, oh well. You might change my mind about something after all, and I hope my friend's wrong about you and that boy (in a rock and roll band la la la la). Shitttttssss.

I had a dream last night (heeeey another song?!), which I can't even bring myself to repeat. I tried to say it to the one friend who'd understand what it's like to WANT but I ended up telling her about the other dream, the stupid dream. You're the dreamy dream I should be talking about because holy shittt how faslkfja you are.

And hey, just for the record, wanting is different from love. I am not in love. I am in wanting, I guess. And I want you (tam tam tam tam tam). Bad.

*

"Putting Out Fire... With Gasoline"

I'm not sure Bowie's song (see title) is really the best for what I want to say. I'm not sure about anything at all, actually. I mean, how can I be sure if what I'm feeling is so unsure and contradicting and "twisted and deranged" (yeahhh Arctic Monkeys) and simply... crazy?! I haven't been writing anything at all because I feared it would come out like it's coming out - simply... crazy.

Anger: for having to stand up for my uni's reputation in the middle of a World War III (a.k.a. Family Dinner). Hell yeah we party hard, but it's not like you say it is AT ALL. We do study, we do have lectures, we do know what a library is. And for your information, we also do become this country's most influential group of people, no, not because we're filhinhos de papai or bratty heirs, but because WE WORK OUR ASSES OFF FOR IT.

Happiness: for standing in the middle of a dancefloor, buzzing with alcohol but not drunk, being pulled in a trillion directions by a clutter of very different arms. Arm 1: random and annoyingly cute guy who doesn't stand a chance. Arm 2: drunk friend punching the shit out of Arm 1's boozy face. Arm 3: Hopeful person I won't even mention here because I want things to work out. Arm 4: crazy girl who dragged me to a corner and pulled my dress down to check out my *¨&(%. Laughs. Lots of Laughs. And I promise I'm not mad, it was funny as hell. Arm 5: increeeedibly hot guy we sadly suspect is gay. Oh well, sigh.

Disgust: for cheaters, sluts, double sluts, hypocrites, fuck-heads, junkies, and coke-whores. No wonder I don't use my middle name.

Love: for Arm 3. I'm Hopeful and you're Hopeful, and I won't say a word because I don't want to screw this up - and I am known for screwing this up, either because I want too much too fast or because I fall in over my head and end up losing myself in the process. Linger on... those pale blue eyes... Ahhh fsadkljfas you're so pretttttty. I want you. I want you so baaaad.

BOTTOM LINE: confusion. curiosity. madness. anger. the horror. lust. love. hope. peace. smiles. laughter. nakedness. arms and legs. faces. eyes. blue eyes. pale blue eyes. pale blue squinty eyes.

Here's Sylvia Plath, before I go mad. "I am. I am. I am."

Mad Girl's Love Song
"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)
I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Decadence Avec Elegance

I walk along the rows of my familiar Friday book store with a serious and determined air, looking for the answer to that which has been robbing me of my usually thought-out, witty words: what am I looking for?

Automatically, I unleash my supposedly soothing thoughts - those meant to keep me from panicking and dropping my mask of poise, elegance, and control.

Why am I looking? Because I feel alone - not lonely, because that's temporary. What I feel is utterly alone in the sense of never being able to be exactly and entirely myself with anyone at all. I'm not saying I'm a liar; I'm saying I'm only parts of myself at different times and with different people. And I'm not alone in the friendship sense either; however, I'm scared to verbalize what I am, in fact, alone in. Because it sounds clichè, because it sounds silly, because it sounds old fashioned, because it sounds lame - take your pick. And it scares me as much as it scares the few friends I'm able to confide in. Aren't I supposed to not care about... love? Aren't I supposed to be out at night, continuously in search of mouths and necks and bodies - nothing else? I am and I do. Did. Do? Sadly, it oscilates. But it's there and that's what matters - that and the feeling of emptiness it brings. I feel like a cannibal, depraved of all senses of self and morality. But I (and everyone else) tell myself: that's what nights are for. For letting it out, for feeling like that, for behaving like I'm supposed to, for not holding back. But then day follows and there's not much else to feel, since there's nothing to feel at all.

I guess that explains the "how am I looking for" part too. And since it's not working, or at least hasn't worked so far, I might go vegeterian in the sense that I won't settle for anything below my so-called "absurd" expectations. Which brings me closer to that which gives me the creeps, which makes me panic, which makes me absolutely vulnerable.

But not yet there. I remind myself to go easy, slowly, patiently... Basically, everything my thirsty self lacks.

So comes the next question: what am I not looking for? Easy, thanks to the past. Not looking for clingy, not looking for curious, not looking for shallow, not looking for someone with all the wrong reasons (or someone with all the wrong consequences either), not looking for money, not looking for a body with an empty mind (or vice-versa, forgive me), not looking for experience, not looking for cheap, not looking for someone who wants to share me, not looking to be someone's rebound, not looking for a candle that burns both ways (but of course I'll make an exception if my big "if" becomes fact), and not looking to be a toy. Oh, and especially not looking to be someone's summer postcard from one in several places of the world to later be shoved away in a shoebox like a distant memory of a long-ago trip. Because that made me believe, for a moment, that I'd never fall in love again.

Okay, deep breath now, as I pick up an elaborately-packed poetry-prose book by a man I've never heard of. Bless you, D.T., for making me believe in the existence of your race. Yes, you did not answer my question at all. You only triggered new ones. But you also gave me clues about what I do want, with that uncanningly (and shamelessly) written phrase of yours. I do want to be the "right ear to lyrically dirty phrases". I do want to give my soul up for words "written in passion-red lipstick". I want to be deliberately stupid, to be "crowned with a sonet", to be "an old poet's muse". I want to believe his words without having to run a background check, I want to trust and be trusted, incinerate and burn, mark and be marked.

Of course, as my best friend so appropriately put it today (in his sad, struggling words), the more I read the pickier I get. Because I do look around to only find myself face to face with betrayal, selfishness, voids, deterioration, and rotten, rotten people. Yet I'm still hopeless in the sense of never losing hope - I know what I want now, despite how hard I try to ignore it. And I'll try not to give into the night, I say as I'm slipping into the shimmery short black dress and heels, and I won't settle for less.

It might not be passion-red, it occurs to me as I carefully paint my lips tonight. But it's red alright.

And the mask is back on.

*

Here I Go Again

So. What does writing a 50,000 word novel in one month sound like?

www.nanowrimo.org

I'm doing it again this year.

*

Regados Por Cerveja

Quem? O que? Meus pensamentos? Os conselhos que ouvi? Os que eu dei?

Tudo.

Bem que falei que escrever alegre era mais... gostoso. Tudo flui. Flui.
(Nota-se que estou me divertindo com a pronunciação das palavras - em pensamento. Que beleza!)

Algumas conclusões (e introduções também, já que todo final de uma boa discussão é também o começo de uma novinha em folha):

-Aquele-Que-Não-Deve-Ser-Nomeado (aka Mad Hatter, Heartbreaker, take your pick) não merece nem minha aversão à músicas de fossa. Porque "Crying" do Aerosmith é sim uma das minhas favoritas, e nem a pau que vou abrir mão disso por ele - ou qualquer um, for that matter. Ok, talvez pelo Steven Tyler já que com ele a coisa vira 2-em-1... mas todos nós sabemos que o cara em questão não é nenhum Steven. Mas estou fugindo do assunto. ANYWAYS, decidi que não desisti. Decidi que acredito sim nessa coisa de realmente gostar de alguém, ao contrário do resto do mundo. É uma coisa meio "been there, done that": experimentei o oposto (extensively, for that matter) e não gostei. Ok, talvez eu tenha gostado um pouquinho... ou até bastante. Convenhamos, é sim divertido. Mas nesse caso, o que importa não é o quanto eu gostei e sim o quanto eu me identifiquei - nada. Por isso achei melhor continuar do jeito que sou, sempre sonhando e olhando pras nuvens em busca de um tantinho assim de integridade e respeito. (dreamer/ stupid little dreamer/ so now you put your head in your hands, oh no! etc.)

- ...o que nos leva à questão da verdade. Quero a verdade, a quero muito! Mas não posso sair por aí e chegar nas pessoas "oi, tudo bem, você é de verdade?". Poder eu posso, mas nem tenho a cara de fazer isso. Não tanto pela vergonha (ok, talvez também pela vergonha) mas mais porque ninguém entenderia. Todo mundo acharia que eu estava falando literalmente, quando na verdade não – como sempre. Ninguém entende o meu sarcasmo quando estou brincando, imagina quando falo sério! No fundo é isso que eu quero – poder falar sério. Hoje em dia tudo é muito tipo “e aê cara, conseguiu o VIP da balada?” e eu, como garotinha da FAAP (cantem Seu Jorge quanto quiserem, já to imune e nem ligo :p), convivo com isso toda hora e também tenho meus momentos; afinal, saber quem tem VIP é algo de importância nacional em alguns casos (big flashing lights: aqui estou sendo sarcástica). ANYWAYS, quero também meus momentos de “cogito ergo sum” e coisas do tipo, nem que seja só às vezes. Porque eu penso sim, e logo existo! Juro, acho que a única coisa que me mantém sã é pensar... Pensando bem, talvez seja a única coisa que não me mantém sã, já que a sanidade, como todos sabem, é um produto da imaginação racional dos Caras Chatos – ou seja, não existe. Ninguém é são.

-Outra coisa que não existe é o tempo - e isso me irrita pra caramba. Tipo, o que é o tempo quando na verdade a nossa vida é contínua? Ela não para nem pro relógio, é o que eu quero (e tento, quase sempre em vão) dizer. O que são sete horas da manhã, quando pra você é o fim da noite? O que são nove e meia da manhã, quando você está com sede de cerveja? Quem são seus pais ou o cara do boteco pra dizer que é muito tarde ou que não se serve bebida a essa hora? O que é tarde e o que é essa hora? Se essas horas não servem, qual hora vai servir? Se não sabemos quando vamos morrer, porque vamos nos preocupar com o “quando” das coisas de agora? Sim, não podemos despirocar total. Porque aí a verdade se perde – e isso também me irrita (notem que “poder” depende do que me irrita; notem também que muitas coisas me irritam). Conclusão: faça o que tiver vontade quando tiver vontade; normalmente esse “quando” é o tanto de responsabilidade anti-despirocamento que você precisa.

Sleep it off, love. Sleep it off. Vou seguir os conselhos a-la-Millie. There’s nothing a hot bath won’t cure. Nem uma crise de perda de esperança pela raça humana, um coração arrebentado à distância, ou uma ressaca maluca da única coisa que tem matado minha sede.