quinta-feira, 7 de setembro de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°68: sun & moon

Noise. Too much noise. To be honest I want to put my hands over my ears and press it down until the only thing I can hear is your voice inside my head saying things you, actually, never said. I know, I know, but the illusion of you it's still so nice. The noises keep getting higher and higher. What were you saying? Oh, you were laughing at your own silliness, I remember that, I remember it all. Gradually, I forgot a lot of things: my phone number, how much I hate my father, one of my kids' birthday, an umbrella on a bus because I got distracted. Never you, though. I kept it under my skin, don't worry; you'd never have to worry if I had the chance to have one wish truly fullfiled. I don't mean anything when I say this, the arrows won't come back, I know, 알아, but I still remember you hugging me and grabbing my arm while we were walking; your hands were so cold but I never cared, at least in the good days I still can see your fingerprints. I remember the way your glasses slightly fell off on the top of your nose when you laughed too hard, I remember us eating leftover pizza at 7am like it was the best meal in the world. I should throw this tape away, dust won't make anything beautiful. Bullshit, it's still beautiful even when I remember how you pushed me away, you were insecure; you still are, how can you not see that the fire in me was extinguished a long time ago — and you shine like a golden god and so spontaneously — so I never got it. I remember the exact moments of the seven pictures that you took of me, I remember when you tightly held my hand because you were scared, because you didn't want to get lost behind me, because I didn't want to leave you exposed to any peril; it was always natural, I said before, I hope I never question it. I pulled out the knife you stuck on my chest and counted it all and I remember all the ways that you've looked at me: the soft eyes when you approached me like a shy cat, the pissed off eyes when you had to deal with—, the playful eyes when you were having fun (I hope you had), the sparkling eyes when you were drunk, the panicked eyes when—, the sad eyes you thought I didn't notice at 4am and you slept beside me, the warm eyes turning into crescent moons when I said something questionable funny, the almost mean eyes when you felt threatened like a feline, the why-are-you-like-this eyes when I was being too loud. What I'm trying to say is that it will take at least three lifetimes for me to comprehend that, no I didn't hallucinated, you existed right in front of me. Oblivion is on the next door.

The world is so noisy, so fast, so unforgiving. I fell in the wrong rabbit hole and no, they didn't give me a choice. They say there's always a rainbow after the rain; it has never stopped raining since the ground opened a hole under my feet and dragged me down, I have never stopped falling. There isn't a real explanation to what I'm feeling and I'm sure as hell I'm about to throw up all my unsaid and undone stuff, and yet during the day I still wonder if you had nice meals. Everybody told me there were many roads ahead of me, so so so much roads I'd be even tipsy just from the sight of it. How can I explain I got blind? You see, I keep saying to myself it's not my fault, however that's not the tale these claw scratchings inside my chest are trying to tell. Oh darling, I'll be fine, I just need to be miserable first. So much noise, l want to punch all of them (never you, not even when you threw me off a cliff) and draw flowers with my blood. Don't feel bad about it, I know you never did but I want to say it anyway; you are a book in a language that sometimes I could understand, though it was never completely I've always did my best anyway. Whenever I allow myself to think I'm in the right place I end up trying to holding on to things already very far from my reach; that's what I get for growing up with ghosts.

History will have so many names, I hope one of them it's yours. But be careful about your corpses, everything has a price. I've always said your name is marvelous, it's not for old people, it's the smell of ice cream in the end of a hot afternoon. But it's not here, I say it again and again and again while my heart deals with the cracks on their walls because of your earthquake, I have to get used to not live in the eye of the storm. Aprés tu, le delùge is nothing but a child's playground, I don't know how to swim and you don't work under pressure, that's why we sunk. I'll make sure you get out of anything alive, you know that. That's why it'll be your name in their mouths, full of love and promises and presumptions of who you are, and you never were that. They're never bored though, neighter I did. An earthquake, a thunderstorm; there was always something on my way back home, never predictable because I believed, and I still do, that you were a uncategorized force of the nature; I remembered that yesterday, I remembered that but I forgot to eat because breathing was suddenly so painful and I was almost sorry again, I don't want you to be, but I always am. You've always brought the rain, it used to be enough.

Despite it all I'm still true to my words; even if this body isn't my body anymore, even if the world disappeared in three days, even if you're thirty five with crappy boots, even, even, even, I'm always here. I'm not quite waiting, a word for this doesn't exist yet. It isn't hate, something I wish I could feel for you, you're like a puppy in the front display of a pet store which is kinda odd because you never had one, so I guess you became one. The world still spins around and I'm not waiting, forgive me if you never stopped living inside my head. My head, you see, is the noisiest place in the whole Creation, but there's a palace of gold only for you, whom is also made of gold, I've been trying to build a few in those last years, never really good enough, you'll never get to see but I wish you like it. Where else should've kept all these things you gave me and I don't want to throw it all away? I lost but I built a palace, remember? I do, always. You never did, but you bring the rain so it's alright. The time in there is quite odd, it feels like you were here a couple of weeks ago, however a million years has gone by. I'm not waiting, but if I lived enough to see you again it wouldn't be that bad. I shouldn't, though. I shouldn't. The clock in the tower doesn't wait for me, or you, and I wish I was running forward; I glued my feet on the floor, I don't mind, it's not your fault and I'm not waiting. In my head you're touching miracles in the future, but hey, that wasn't really you and I'm sorry if I tried to put strings on your brain and I'm sorry I kept the knife you craved in my chest; understand me, I don't want to forget you.

At first it felt like drowning, but I know what it's is like and this is not it. It's possible you made me feel an emotion still unknown by the human race, it's possible this is what the breaking of a heart sounds like. It's possible to repair covering the cracks with gold, never the same though; I have no shame in admit that the only loud noise I'd gladly bear for the rest of my life is the untamed power you have over me, I'm foolish enough to forget the destruction you already caused. I'm not waiting, but this is where I leave you; I'm trying to feed myself with the memories I have left. I'm not waiting for any new person because none of them are you, there's only you in this universe, nobody can replace this chair beside me. I would erase all of me just to have more space to store more of you and this is not waiting, I don't let go of things but this is not waiting. I look careless at the sun and I see your face; I look at the moon and I'm supposed to be there; at least my body should be able to be spotted, but there's only rain and an army of you.

sábado, 26 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°67: Sadness bucket list

Buy me a wristwatch. Buy me a compass. Buy me a shovel. You know what I mean by this, you have to at this point. It goes like this: me, in a car whose owner I don't even bother to remember, smoking the shit out of a cigarette and thinking how much I don't wanna be buried in a coffin. I'd curse thousands of men before I'd let them throw dirt over me, for now.

It goes like this: me, burning like the tip of the cigarette I had in my mouth, reaching my illusion of liberty. After this you can throw me on the ground if you want to, I don't care, it's just a different process that leads to the same end. Everybody knows what it is.

It is like this: I've always been burning, so I don't want to stop just because I'm dead. Burn me and put your hands in the fire, it stings but you can do it, darling, then you shall understand. I can't bear the sight of you from here and this is the final mission.

Truth is I want to taste time like a fresh new apple, so give me the wristwatch and hope for the best. How must I look like, being seen through your eyes, not sickly eyes, real eyes with sparkles and colors, fireworks. How much of me you've seen disappear through those years I've become not me? Don't think you're the one to blame, get off your high horse. There's nothing you can do to save the dead. My journey got lost itself and grew apart from me, shattered in a million of strings I can't put together, not anymore, there's no energy. The loneliness that grew up with me became a new language that only I know how to speak, so how could you try, you see? Your flammable silence is your answer and I'm surprisingly grateful. There's too much wording in my throat but I look at you and you just exist right there, lying on your bed scrolling through your phone; I get caught up in these epiphanies in which I can't win, and you can't save me because you can't see the flames.

Don't nod and smile, you already smile too much in my head, come closer. You know what the shovel is for. I don't care as long as you keep holding my hand, even though you hate heights. I'm not falling, don't worry. I'm not fucking Icarus or some dumb asshole who thought I'd be a good idea to anger some Almighty, how must it be giving so much of a fuck like this. I want to be dazzled by my end, something that not even I could've imagined. Certainly looks a marijuana cloudy party, with your hand on my hair and too much noise. Beg with me that I won't get lost on my way to go back to the world of atoms, so hurry and give me that compass.

Once, twice, two hundred and twenty four times I waited for someone to get up on their white horse for me, but my teeth is too sharp, so much hate in my eyes; I finally understood. You can't read the language of my silence and I wish I had the time to wait. 

quarta-feira, 16 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°66: You're going to suck at it

Slowly, then all at once. You can describe a lot of things like this, but I chose to use this to exemplify the fact that you got stuck at some point I didn't perceive you're always late. There's this tall person in the entrance of my bedroom and it's always you, but not really. Sometimes you shrink, sometimes I don't know if I've been doing things right and if at some point I'm going to be punished for that. It's only natural for this road to always lead me to you; even in the depths of hell I'd find the road you took. The sad thing is that you're always blindfolded, you never get to see me being the heroine. 

There was this house I've been and despite all the princes and monsters inside it, I never got to be neither of them. My boots makes no sound as I walk upstairs, you clearly know it's not real; there should be a crack crack crack somewhere. Maybe I wanted it to be genuine, maybe I wanted you to look at me in that way that could destroy entire civilizations; my trembling hand is just a sneak peek. Maybe. I don't hate you enough to not love you in such a way, the amount of pain I'd bring knows no boundaries and there's nothing too different about you. I'm not a prince and I'm not a monster, I'm a clock that goes up, goes down, a clock that stops, a clock that people expect to be functional forever. I'm always late, too.

Time hates me and I hate it too, we're sworn enemies living under the same roof. But it don't get to walk around and observe the miscellaneous of colors in the sky when you're sleepy on the grass, I almost forget I should laugh at what you're saying. Not much, you say you want to save yourself from the world, then a smile, dimples and all. I want to really laugh because you're so oblivious, you already did.

People I can't meet in the same timeline are the ones I want to attach myself to, otherwise it all falls in the realm of boredom. I want them to see me dying and not being about to do shit about it, someone has too. I'm scared of being alone and you have to comfort me. In your voice I hear the word "cruel" and I don't care, oh, how lovely would be to vanish from this world in your arms.

I know this is a war I can't win, yet I entered the battlefield alone as if thousand of men were behind me. This losing game is better than being stuck in some point, gagging the words I couldn't say because I got too comfortable. That's you. The sound of your boots can be heard a hundred of miles from where you are, wherever you are. You keep being the pretender and I can't bring myself to give a damn about it, but you should now who you are. You should know that failing to read me perhaps will be one of the worst mistakes of your life, but I'd never push you off this cliff. There are days I don't know what is real and what's in my mind; you are in both and it's so confusing. Your body is not helping my body, but I'd still prefer to burn in your presence; the fire has no chance against the memory of your embrace. If one day the world is meant to fall in a strange and profound darkness, it's because you won. Don't be so mad once you realize I'm too late be by your side in the celebration downstairs, just close your eyes and let your body go with a flow that keeps drifting far, far away from me. You still can't see, but I'm mercilessly giving all I can do for you, all at once; I hope you don't hate me, I hope one day you find gentleness in your heart to accept this present; all the space of the world is yours, do you like it? Is it enough? Keep using my boots that are you small for you and stop being late; jump in the goddamn fire, it can do no harm, bring this world to it's knees for you. Pretend I'm watching and you'll do just fine.

segunda-feira, 14 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°65: I was a camera until I went blind

Night comes and I feel like telling stories that I don't quite know if they were real, but if I'm never certain that doesn't make me a liar. Even though I am — I hoped you could read me. Somewhere, the fast forward button of the control of my life is pressed so damn hard that I forget I am a person, with a body, with a sorrow. Imagine it as if it were sea waves, I'm suddenly there and I don't belong; I am brought back here and I don't have a home. Of course there's a place for me in this world, even if it's on a graveyard. Do you believe that? The eternal search for ourselves and what to make of it comes from wanting to be akin of those we love. Sometimes believing isn't enough. 

It's the sunset and I want to tell you so many things about the type of bird that eats all my organs everyday; it all grows back up after midnight. It's a silent abduction, you wouldn't want to hear about that. You'd make it all about yourself in the end. Don't misjudge me, I bring no shame upon you, I've never been good at doing that. My kidnapping into the underworld has nothing to do with you, no matter how many times you ask me about it. Don't you get it? No creature alive could turn me into an island, I am forever unbowed even when sprawled over the floor beside your bed. Every time I look at my arms I see shackles on my wrists, yet my knees won't bend. I'd rather die by my hand in every life than to allow someone to hold this kind of power. This is why I tell you nothing, but I hope you like birds anyways. 

The next story is simple, it's about a boy and a girl. Not in that kind of way, it's him being there when I needed someone to obsess over it. Your job was barely well done and you still looked like you could rip my heart out of my chest at any time. Funny how you never lived up to the you inside my head, me neither. You never loved me and I never loved you, but you were fun to daydream about. Human bodies that aren't really real are my favorites, at least in my head when I pretend I didn't care, you cared. There was no white horse and you never had the balls to kiss me again, it's boring and it's nothing worth to remember. The wheel of time waits for no one and allows no rewinds, but I would've kissed you longer if I knew how quickly you'd fade away. 

There was a time I didn't live in my head and I did everything right, poster kid of the generation of children that would be known by name in this place. As a matter of fact, today I'm an ace only in holding back. Concealing is a skill then it turns into a cage, no matter how fancy a cage may look like; it's still a cage. It's bigger on the inside though, might look like a ship container by now. Throw a fearful moment inside, throw all the people that told me they wouldn't leave (and left), it fits everything. Never open your Pandora's box, wait five years, wait fifteen years; at the right time it'll start to leak blood and tears. It's not my fault, they say. I never asked to go through this stuff, they say. Am I expected to forgive and forget? Walk with thorns wrapped around your toes for most of your life and see if it turns you into a benign creature. In my head you are the monster, and you knew that you were. Sins demand punishments, and I hope that you're still in flames. I can't say these things out loud. There's still this child in me that wants to be understood with her silence. 

All the girls in the world are stories worth telling. I wouldn't know where to start even if I had a guide book. In my dreams, there was this girl, all in black, that came to me and brought me a pair of shoes, it was lovely. I really didn't care for the shoes, her hands in my skin were the only thing worth of inventing. The antics of my creations are never quite original, but I'd give you my feet if that meant that you could walk in reality with me and hold my hand, I don't mind crawling. It's understandable that you've noticed at this point that melodrama is my specialty.

Why do humans are so eager to write down their explorations for posterity? Oblivion it's not a curse, it's a blessing. To fade away, hand in invisible hand, it's not like you'd think. I've been burning for so long, so brightly, I'm not even warm there's no point, stars are lonely and dead, I don't want to be seen. You see, most of the things I want to forget are those that made me into who I am today, and I really hate myself. Would you still look down on me for this? The way I hurt myself has nothing to do with anyone, but you still want to be the hero. Am I the dragon or the princess? You can choose. However, you won't. Not until it's useless and you still think it's about you. It's not my fault I habit this body, and I never blamed you for being so oblivious about how much I've sunk in this sand. Always choose yourself first, it's the right thing to do; maybe if I had done this a bit earlier in my head I wouldn't have opened that box. Scratch that, I'm a fool. I'll always take the bullet for you even with your hand stabbing me in the guts. I don't know how to love in any other way.

segunda-feira, 7 de agosto de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°64: 24


It has been weeks since I've had a proper sleep. There's something in my eyes that can't match all of the other eyes; I think of it as a door I keep open even though I know only the wicked ones are coming, at least they bring some excitement. I'd rather go blind than be bored and this says a lot about how I'm living.


I'm waiting for them. I'm waiting for you, I'm waiting for me. Just imagine we're somewhere else and nothing can harm you; if we make it I can get a deal. You know I never care about myself, so let's not be pointless. I wish this was a love story. An adventure story, a fantasy story. Life is already depressing enough to a melodic character to be interesting. Let's propose I walk forward on my own; can you imagine that? I want to walk backwards into my past years and protect myself from my ghosts. I never made it, it never got better.


I love colors. Sometimes it's too bright and I can't stay still, but as soon as I touch it, just fits. My hand in the paint and it almost speaks to me. There's this trick I try every time to receive the answers I need, it never works therefore I wait. If you take a closer look, people are made of tiny fabrics of speckles like a kaleidoscope, it's astonishing and tragic; can't bring myself to really hate them. Of course it's because I'm a coward, sorry for forgetting to be clear about that. Only cowards hate their own skin tones, only cowards and martyrs, if you needed I'd still die for you though. You can see I'm a fool, a person shouldn't be that ready to die at such a young age. Not 24, but 14. 10 years in the making of an earthquake, the only patching up I get is forgetfulness and the way you laugh with your mouth wide open up and I swear I see butterflies coming out of it, when you laugh so hard and get an asthma attack because it's worthy. 


The devil does not exist. Take that affirmation as an universal truth for a second. Look inside your guts, in your blood; it's you. Deep down you know. There's more blood about living that you could've imagined and it's okay, just keep breathing, I am too. These violent battles and dreadful acts are nothing but a brief look at the mirror; keep them locked up and smile, nothing to lose sleep over (they say). I accept that you are the way you are and I still love you and it's almost not fair how you get to be a goddamn aurora boreal, you can't see your own sparkling aura but I did, I do, I swear I do. 


Contrary to popular belief, I can let go of things that don't fit the picture anymore. At least it's me getting hurt, it's a Jane Doe; I can take it, I'm used to it. Honestly being so full of shit my entire life made me expect a knife in my liver at anytime; it's not about rightfulness or pity, expect expect expect and that's the only thing you'll think you deserve. Don't fret, I'm always waiting for the non boring things to happen like the little mediocre bitch that I am. Letting go means bittersweet juices and cupcakes and my drilled hand trying to hold corpses. There was a time where I wished for good things to happen; no longer after that I realized I don't know how they look like anymore. Happiness isn't the same to everyone, however the common factor is wanting to share it. So be in a pair; make one, invent one, go to find one. My letting go is flawed, despite my efforts. Some days I still let the door open to people I know that won't come back anymore — just to stop breathing for a moment, I need it. This is not healing, it's damage control. Good luck with these two hundred cracks on my skin, no light on these obsidian walls, no rope for escaping. I'd still help you, because your hands are cotton and silk, if you let me touch it for this long you'll get burned. Count until three and let go.


On August 6 2012, the mars rover Curiosity landed on Mars. It sings a birthday melody for itself every August 6, alone, on a fucking planet of sand storms. Everything should be made in pairs, if you ask me. Even God supposedly understood that, that one God that later wrote some bullshit saying that one of the them is inferior. Things and humans aren't made to be alone, anywhere. Do you think it would despise you, it's Creator, if it had to spend their life spans singing to it selves? Don't overthink, let me bring you back to the singing. There's birthdays where I lock my bedroom's door and spend the day sleeping until the day ends; there's birthdays that I sit on the floor with a cake without candles and cry until my body passes out; in some birthdays I tell everybody to fuck off and I sing silly birthday songs to myself, scrolling through the internet to see if anyone remembered me even though I'm always MIA and wait, here comes the expectations and nobody gets to beat them, it's a kobayashi maru, nobody is in my head. Some birthdays people say they love me and I can't bring myself to give a shit, not their fault. People try to sing to me and I feel even more like crap, I don't want to make wishes, I don't want hugs, I don't want more birthdays. I don't want to be alone anymore, but I'm always fighting invisible monsters and it's so hard to feel real again and reach out. I prefer the birthdays I sing to myself, they're little bread crumbs marking the way back home, which is useless because there's no such thing. So just sit on this empty corn field and scream til there's only void in your flammable throat; come to find me after that, I'm always waiting. That way, your silence fills me with a love you didn't know it was was an option; you never thought it could be like this. It will kill me someday, but the door is unlocked and I still manage to have hope. This is what masochism looks like.

terça-feira, 25 de julho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°63: The middle

How can I explain? I don't make pretty things. My hands are full of weeds and it wants to eat everything alive. The tenderness was desired, but my face smells like dry blood and wind dust because I'm always on run. God, I wish I special like you, like them, like that mango tree over your head. They are what they are; I'm not what I am and I'm not what I wanted to be, maybe, maybe that's okay. Close your eyes and follow the sound of my voice, hold my hand and tell me I'm pretty — I've always wished to be that — tell me to write about love again. I hate orders, but you're under my skin, I can't refuse.

Walk through a street alongside me and, if you pay attention (nobody does), you can see that I only have half of my body; as if I'm wandering half in this world and half in the void. The me in the void is long gone and my head doubts if it even existed in first place. Don't get distracted, pay attention to the hole in my chest sucking the life out of me. It turns into a hurricane so fast you barely can see the wind dirt dressing me down.

Get out of the middle and choose a side, someone yells. Well, I would if I fucking wanted, I reply. I like the hurtful and unbalanced switch, at least it's not boring. The middle is my mom and my dad bring me into this life even though they're fuck ups. I'm not a mixture, I got stuck in the strains of heads on the wall and cultures that don't accept me. The middle is needing labels because I don't know how I am supposed to act in this existence. The middle is my skin being hated, and hating my skin, but not expressing myself about it because I'm not really there. The middle is my friends making plans — I hate plans and promises and people who give up easily — because my imagination doesn't go that far. The middle is me being a mediocre person, I was more in my head, I did everything there. The middle is wanting to hold a hand forever and then 30 seconds later rushing back to my room to isolate myself for 6 months. The middle is wanting to die so, so much, but there's people making noise. The middle is wanting to smash someone's head into a wall, but being terrified when people start raising their voices during an argument. The middle is wanting to say so many cruel things to the people I love for they don't live up to their versions in my head; I hold back, I wanted them to read my mind so I don't have to speak about it. The middle is running away from everything that could have an ending coming soon. The middle is me, with 14 years, trying to kill myself for the first time, but hoping if something extraordinary could happen and erase the bad things from my head. Instead, I keep forgetting, bit by bit. The middle is laughing while your brain displays a compilation of solid points about why you should die as soon as possible. The middle is talking about how I didn't want to be broken then hearing every week every time that I can change that if I really really want. I don't. The middle is from where I can see you and the wonderful, painful, joyful life you'll have. I won't.

Somewhere from where I am a memory, I hope I'm a good one. Keep following the sound of my voice and don't look back, I've already turned into a clock. Tick tock, tick tock, keep measuring, keep counting, keep walking and then silence. The silence will cut through your throat, but it'll be alright, darling. My dry blood thrives, even though I'm a cardboard cut out, the velvet overwhelms this room. Don't open your eyes, just tell me I'm pretty anyways.