quinta-feira, 16 de novembro de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°70 - Non omnis moriar

Your hands never touched me, and oddly it was something you were always proud of. I didn't get to know the weight of your strength in my skin, and sometimes — in a really fucked up way — I wish I did. But what isn't fucked up about me, right? The congratulations are for you. At least I could've fight back; the only thing I've learned how to do, but don't forget you were the one that threw me into the jungle. Although it isn't always loud, I can tackle a few people in a couple of seconds, but that's not the major point; my survival got so quiet that even I wouldn't notice I was there. Sometimes I wondered if I stopped existing for a while, if I got sucked into another universe for a certain time. If you had threw me on the ground and kicked me in the face, I'd be sure to spit blood on you, that's what you've made of me — red hands and red arms, it could've been yours. Thinking clearly now, I should've displayed how close I was to let the monster you put inside myself break itself free. You should've had a front seat, it'd be a beautiful doomsday. This game of pushing and pulling didn't make me cruel though, but you don't get credit for that; you're the one who turned me into the beast that haunts kids' nightmares of how bad they could end up in the future. Look both ways, turn yourself into a gun, you never can be sure, just grow up, quickly, to be able to protect those you love; that was me, powerless and now, too powerful. 

Contrary to popular belief, I do understand how forgiveness works and in a few times I manage to deliver it, but don't get too chimmy. This isn't what I intend for you. Forgiveness is me pulling, bare flesh and all, the knife off of my chest and sewing the skin back together. I can leave in the deepness of mind a lot of times people I love have wounded me; even if it wasn't a scratch, even if it was a gunshot deep down spilling my guts. That way comes with forcing myself into swallowing hollowness; I'm a haunted house in ruins, collecting my own corpses shouldn't be something to be taken aback by. What I meant to say accurately about forgiveness is that such thing is an enchanted flower in a vast and crowded forest in a summer night, I can't pinpoint it's exactly location; men speak, gods speak, this commotion means nothing to me if you allow me to be this mannerless. There's no such thing as being lost in this stream, it's my excuse — I have a billion of them, do you want some? You were never good at it — to say that not even in the very brink of perpetual extinction of the universe, I'll never get over the fact that I could be a completely different person if you just had considered that I'm someone you should've protected; instead you threw me to the wolves. You forgot — you always did — that I'm a lion, you forgot because you've never seen one even when you spotted my claws full of dirt, of  dry blood; you forgot because that's what we do when we don't want to confront something. It's not my shame, it's yours. I ate people like you for breakfast and this hierarchy is certainly a universe's joke that I ended up with a prey I can't devour.

For a certain time I thought I'd care, in the long run, about the fact that you had he audacity of dissipate on thin air; I waited for tears that never came, just as you never came back. I'm glad you didn't, because out of all the stupid people I've met so far, you were the worst, and the killing part is that I couldn't voice it out. But I bet you're not surprised with my hatred, it has always been here; did you think that the growing of my limbs would erase your painful writings on my walls? Every time I have to hear that there's a resemblance of your existence in my face I want tear my skin apart, I don't want to be like you, a concrete wall of stubbornness and dumbness that is everything that lead me to self destruction. I didn't know who I should be (am I the heroine, am I the villain?), but in the end I didn't have the pleasure of disembowel every piece of you like I wanted to. Red is the blood we share, and it's still red when I break my skin apart in order to have less of you inside me. It's red and I feel like an usurper, these violent memories feel stolen, but I was there, you know that. Life has a non-conventional way of making things clear in the most random moments; you left and I released the breath I was holding for years. There is no forgiveness, my mind burns you in this house we've met for the first time, but I'm unburnt, and you don't, you deserve that. Judgement comes with all the shit I've been through and I don't care about being the bigger person; I hope it fucking haunts you for the entire eternity that you loved me in all the wrong ways, in all the wrong moments; you're not here, but my shadow is your shadow — I raise my voice and I feel you take over me like supernatural possession; you're far from that shit though, you made me a monster and left, you didn't even had the decency of waiting for me to die first, cry me a fucking river. Be aware that I don't believe in anything, I didn't get to build a bridge to get over it because I've been kicking and being kicked since birth; dropped and forgotten and bruised without repair, but I'm tough, they say, I never cried. Miserably suffering in the darkness of my room was thing I thought I should do, the right thing to do to escape from weakness, and that's on you. Ghosts everywhere, all the possibilities float around me but I never reach any of them, shit, I'm scared; I am the youngest that had to be the oldest in a blink of an eye, in the little things and in the vast pressure of being responsible for someone because that was what I had to do, I couldn't let them become like me. Someone has to thrive from this shit show, and it's not gonna be me. In those nights everything feels like it's all about the way my teeth has always been too sharp to resemble someone who needed protection, it's my fucking fault I get it, so the pack sent me out there to die. I am no wolf, I said and I said, I said; never quite understood why they were surprised with the carnage. Bring the glasses full of alcohol, you succeed in creating a disaster waiting to happen. It's ridiculous, you're not even a wolf; in my memories you've always been a low being in the food chain, I could swallow you in a blink of an eye if I wanted to. You should've seen my butchery, you should've felt miserable. Don't forget that at all costs you wanted me a wolf, so instead I became a lion just to smile watching your disappointment when I declined the throne. I wish you were still here so I could chain your weak body to this golden chair that mattered so much, the thorns drilling through your skin would be a masterpiece I could stare til the end of the days. This crown is meaningless; I've always hated elitism, and I'm still the beast with blood — my own blood — in my hands.

This blood in me is also the blood that has been shed through entire centuries, and yet I feel like the usurper. There's a road I've been walking my entire life, it doesn't matter much that nowadays I'm crawling in order to keep others on their feet, except for the fact that it has put me as a mediator of every single thing I've been involved; my greatness was overshadowed by my own body in order to allow others to shine. My brain keeps telling me I should stop walking, I'm not that great anyway, but it's still beautiful. Even in my hatred there's a beauty hidden by the storm. Even in you, there was a beauty in the genes you gave me; I'm proud of where I came from even if they don't recognize me as such. I wanted it all, you know. Books, music, stories; the background about myself that would help me build a proper self, someone I could actually describe when I'm asked who I am. You took that away from me too. The distance you thought was enough to keep your shield up and running, and it's almost comical that you stopped walking your road and your hands are no longer capable of reaching me even if you wanted to. We're alike, right? So you must be with popcorn in hands watching me rot. All those lies about how great I was, I am, meant nothing when I just wanted to be like everybody else, to like and think and act like most of people do. I wanted not to want great things; to be mediocre like you, to be stupid like you. I restrained myself to see the greatness in many things, but I keep founding them even in the hateful mirror I face every morning. It's a stranger, at least it's not you; but it still feels like there's a world inside me that wants to get out and I don't know how to help it. You took your hands with you when you were gone, but you still left me here. The thing is that your hands are my hands and let's not fool ourselves, we were made to break things. I'm tired of containing myself, and terribly afraid of the day I'll lose my abitlity to refrain my rage; there will be no coming back from that and this battlefield is endless and fucking pointless, that's all what men do; letting go of myself is the best option. Congratulations, this is your perfect final act.

sábado, 23 de setembro de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°69: Because the weather was good enough

Words are useless when I can't look straight into your eyes, but I still insist on that. There's nothing that I can really do anymore and the world is so goddamn gray because I don't remember what your voice sounds like. In my chest, floating in deep waters, there's thousands words I want to spit out, most of them being a enormous amount of “How are you?”, “Did it hurt you as well?”, “Tell me what you've being doing since you died”. I died too, but that's not important. Your face has always been a book in a language I can't understand; nobody in the world can understand, but I was foolish enough to hope that one day you'd teach me it. You didn't, but I still want to remember what your voice sounds like. Legend says Odin gave up one of his eyes to acquire more knowledge, and I'd give up so much more — so fast — to stop the expansion of this black hole inside my body, so undoubtedly, cruelly devastating, that you'd never believe it. Maybe it's time to stop reading things I can't read; I just wrongly translate the words to what I want to hear and yet even in my daydreamings you can't comprehend me. Suddenly everything is on fire and of course it's my fault, I'm the only one in the room.

The fire never reaches where I'd like it to, do I have to defenestrate myself to be noticed by one of my fates? I should be in the streets, where people at my age always are; mixture of bodies and heat and struggle, but there's nobody to grab my hand to prevent me to drift away, so what's is the point. I make so much noise, I know, I'm sorry, if you manage to bring my self back to my old body (any body you want, your body maybe) I swear I can stop crying. Every tear is a bullet that traveled up inside my chest and drips down my face; i can taste the gunpowder, it's disaster waiting to happen.

Follow my trail for a second and please look back with me to see if we can reminisce the people we were before the world punched us in the face. I remembered the old me in a convenience store and I almost looked up to share a thought, to say I'm so, so sorry. Almost, I don't really think I'm entitled to that. Almost, I don't know if I'll ever get another chance. Perhaps, my head is finally accepting it's miserableness and the loneliness that comes with being the way I am, I swear this is not a overreacted drama. It's not that bad, to be honest. I think that we, as human beings, are made to dilapidate sooner or later; how can we do this to ourselves, however that doesn't stop anyone. We shall go back to the stellar dust we came from; I just happen to be closer to that than you. I'm closer of anything that isn't you, or my old self, or this reality.

Admitting that I still want a hand clutching my heart is pitiful and I wish I could hate myself just a little less, just enough to have some energy to fight for my way.  This path is nothing that horrific, I just make it more unbearable that it has to be; at some point the subtle statement that it's what I deserve became definitely clear. So I turn my instincts to the people I still care about, and only the Universe knows how terrible it is how I nonchalantly use them as a scapegoat. Part of me wants to care so much about what you have to say and it's just shameful that I don't. Don't get me wrong, I still would take a bullet for you and all those things you don't take seriously when I share my thoughts. The bullet, all the heavy weights, I'll do it even though you'd give me a look that acknowledges my true intentions, but it's the only thing I can bring to the table. Yesterday, the stranger in the mirror told me that not a single soul could hold my hand for too long; I don't care too much about of the expected rejection, I said and I laughed and the gods laughed. We all know what we do to ourselves, but I wish I didn't. You do and I still can't read your face, but I hope I'm transparent enough for you to see I'm going to foolishly love you until the universe decides to reboot itself.

As a matter of fact, the universe is a strange place to be, however there's no other place to escape to. At least it always rain when I'm too lonely; an attempt of kindly remind me that my body isn't the only body in the world. No one really believes that I always know when it's gonna rain, but in the long row it doesn't get under my skin. At a young age, I thought that being aware of the things I was capable to do was a unlocked achievement, when in it's inglorious truth is nothing but a burden. The nihilist poets I read in the past seemed lost in their own minds; little do my old self knew that I'd meet them in this place where the sun doesn't shine too brightly; only in the slightly darkness resides a power of self recognition. As long as it hurts, unashamed we barf words, memories that the others forgot, feelings we intrinsically fear to voice out. It's too dangerous to be left unrestrained, but nothing in this world belongs in a cage. When the weather gets on it's knees in front of me, I'm always surrounded by all the persons I could become; I'm too greedy and I wanted it all. Do you think you'd like one of them? I'd let you choose if I could, I don't trust myself. I'm sorry about all this rain and I'm sorry that I can't unlove you just as much as I can't love my vessel, sadly you can read that in my face. The thickness of my skin is almost completely gone, I'm afraid that nothing much of me will remain if that is something to lament about, but I see you even when the world has no colors at all so it's okay, that's okay, it's okay; that's what my good days are made of. 

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.

quarta-feira, 28 de junho de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°62: You were beautiful

You see, I want to give calls when I want to say I love someone without really needing to say the words, but I bleed so much. I don't feel my hands and there's just so many bright lights, all around all the time, don't you ever get so dazzled by all of it and all of it becomes none of it in a millisecond because I'm dumb, I can't reach and the darkness is so familiar. I look at you through the curtain and I think “darling darling darling”, my tongue disappears and I can't breathe (again).

The nature in me (the Hyde) wants me to be cruel when I'm in physical pain, I'm hurting and I want you to hurt too, I want to see you burn just as much as I do; you'd have pretty wings though. But I never do and never regret it, I'm that mean to myself, I'm that greedy. There's only so little I can prove it's real and the burning hand squeezing my heart it's real, darling. The vintage picture of your laugh it's still so clear yet so blurry it's almost a recording on a video tape just like the Twin Peaks one. Pause, pause, pause, pause, pause I want the perfect angle, I don't want to forget (I'm lying), please let me keep this. You never laugh like that again in front of my face, I close my eyes forever and I bet you're still smiling. Hands on the floor, hands on my neck, hands on my skull, scratching my hair to make access, to make space.

Lady Destiny made me to be one to forget, little round broken machine somehow at the front of the store's display. I'm sorry about your purchase but darling, you're sorry too, I can read on the glint of your living eyes hovering above this corpse; you have so much useless hope, darling. Listen, there was a nail making their way inside my foot; blood everywhere and I said it was kinda cool. The other me(s) in other realities just cackled, chanting silly little round, silly one. The joke's on them though, the velvet thickness is my the best function. And I mean it, darling. One day you'll get to see that even I made use of it to paint my journals and bedroom walls and the parts of me I still can't bring myself to go deeper, blindfolded I'm on my way to not see more of me, only trying to see more of you. All the versions of this broken chest built skyscrapers around themselves and look, yes I am shattered, but I'm not a puzzle piece. My body may be on the ground and I can't breathe, darling; just once give me your oxygen (I want to say) why can't I be mean right now (I never do). 

In my memories there's always a bulletproof vest. I lie and I say that I'm protecting myself, however we both know I haven't shielded myself in a long time. You speak about the future and goddamn, there's this effervescent gold light crafting a crown over your head; you tell me the future because you have that power but I'm sure I'm never there, you always know I'm certain I'm not there. You're still talking and I want to touch the inside of you that have all these soft things and maybe steal it, but I can't be that selfish, not anymore, and it's pointless. A part of me rejoices because you are there, darling, I never doubted that; but who you'll have to see dying to become stronger? Is it me, is it yourself? Your arms can carry this weight of flowers that feels like the weight of iron bars? I saw myself dying two times and I still can't do it. The point is that you're better than me, darling. You can make paper birds and they'll carry you along the way, are you listening? I hope you are, I love you. Simple as that, simple and I can't feel.

The sea is catching fire and I only look at your picture in my bedroom desk. But I can't feel it, I'm sorry. You cry when you think I'm not looking, silly. My sight has never left your side, silly. I'm taking pictures so I can remember you and I are real, and because when I can finally breathe again I'm always alone, your ghost-object-permanence hand is on my hair, thank you, hurriedly you move back into the photo I took of you though. Like I said, the sea is catching fire and I'm only saving your smiling face. I'll take it to my grave, I don't like to be alone anymore and I still can hear your voice. Darling darling darling, please forget me. I'm satisfied with just the ghosts of you. 

quarta-feira, 26 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°61 - 2-stars hotel

One of the greatest symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is the intense and profound fear of abandonment, even when there's no base to this fundament. There isn't much of logic when you have BPD, but it's always about leaving. Somehow, it always end up being my fault. For being too introverted, for being too clingy, for being too scary, for being unable to control my voice's volume, for being too weird, for being too boring. I get it, really. It's not like I'm gonna refute this. My body turned into a 2-stars hotel, these ones mostly given out of pity by those who stayed here and then, like everybody else, left. There's not even other three stars faded beside it, and you can blame on my negativism. It's just so fucking tiring to be the one who's always making the effort to take the water out of this sinking boat; the hole in the very deep fabric of it has always been there, I can't remember it not being there. My arms are numb along with the rest of my body, must be because of that that I can't feel a motherfucking single thing. I'm tired of trying not to drown forever in the lives of the people I love, when clearly they don't seem to mind the water entering in my mouth; my lungs are full of salty water and they dare to ask me why I'm having trouble to breathe. I never thought I'd be like this — the water around me feels like two thousand knives and I've always thought that sinking would be worst thing that could've happened to me, but then I noticed I started floating. The lapis lazuli roof over my head hurts my eyes; it's too shiny and I have goddamn photophobia. The waters are calm while the fury of the eye of the storm crushes my chest, but I never flinch; I'm too afraid that if I do, there'll be no turning back. No matter how much i think, it's (i'm) never worth it. So I float and I see all of you, and I still can spare time to smile at this sight. The truth is I'm just a fucking coward who runs away in order to not being abandoned. Being forgotten is easy, forgetting others is a splinter under the nail that haunts you. It's a splinter under all your nails, even from the hands and feets that you didn't know were there. I cut all of them, however they just multiply the former misery. By now, the rock in chest is so damn heavy that there's no law of physics that would agree to this situation. Yet, I float. I float and I listen to music that makes temporarily happy, and others makes tremendously sad, on purpose. I remember they're dead and something dreadful inside me twitches, I remember everything taken from me and I want to tear this world apart because I didn't deserve being made this way. And I can't forgive either. But I'm floating as all of you can see. Did you know they used to drown women accused of witchcraft back in the XVI century? But I float. I get up everyday asking for mercy with resignation, I look at the universe and just plead to die. But I continue to float. I'm adrift and voiceless, every day an centimeter away from the sight that still manages to make me smile. Why don't you swim, you (you, you) ask me. I don't fucking know how, and everybody keeps saying that the pills will teach me. (They didn't) So I float. If you ever wonder if I'm writing about you: I am. And I float. And I left. I float but I burn; I'm the thick layer of oil on the water that can't wait to combust, because I think I deserve the flames. There's so much sorrow without a reason and I just want to feel less insane. The water in mouth goes merciless through my throat and stabs my lungs in every single way possible, perharps that's the reason I can't really breathe sometimes.  I still can laugh once in a while, you know. Even though there's blood (my own blood, my ancestors' blood) all over my body so often that some days I think my skin turned red like the ones who lived before me had. I'm truly a half; not quite 100% here, not really 100% there. I leave even my halfs behind, some kind of murder that isn't acknowledged yet. There's a plethora of things I'd like to be. However, I left. And that's okay. It's love. It's pain and it's not beautiful, not anymore. At least I can still see you on the dry land.

sábado, 15 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°60 - Hate

I think about girls in towers and dragons vigorously guarding — threatening, hovering over their aureola like the moon tries to cover the sun on an eclipse. Sometimes the dragon is yourself; sabotaging all the good thoughts you could have about who you are. That's how self hatred starts. At first, you think that, even if you hate everything about yourself, you could still do something to change your body. You try to exercise, eating healthier or sometimes not eating at all because you think you already had too much in the past days. For a while, it works; you look at your reflex on the mirror somehow, endeared. Then the breakdown comes. It's like standing on a beach watching a tsunami coming at your direction, but you don't know if you really want to manage to run away. So you're dragged down. You try loving yourself again, but something is different. There isn't the same motivation, so you start to slack off. At certain point, you give up. The thoughts that stab you right in the gut don't flinch at any compliments; you stop believing them, and not much longer you don't believe anything else. The dragon wins, you think. There's flames all over your body, the touch you provide feels like it burns the others even though they don't say so. There's a beggining of the damsel in distress complex. You start imagining that someone magically will into your life and love you unconditionally — even though you haven't left the house in four months — until you start to love yourself, and you'll be whole again because you'll realize how wrong you were. It doesn't happen, sorry. You might find someone, cultivate feelings with them with the delicateness of someone who's building something with Lego, but it's still about you. About you and your goddamn dragon. Suddenly you're seeing everyone through a thin but effective pane of glass — you can hear them laughing out of happiness, looking at you and saying something you can't hear because of the goddamn pane of glass. You try break it, reaching out, but you're still deaf to them. You can only hear the bad things your brain create about your disgusting self. So you stop trying reaching out, stop trying to convince yourself, and even all the praises in the world won't make you feel less miserable. You still seek them though, mostly as an automatic thing than a real desire. You get used to the burning. The pain that your knuckles against the wall causes somehow brings you to a peaceful moment. Adrenaline runs all over your body telling you you're still alive, mostly out of spite. Pain becomes common, the heat of the flames don't bother you anymore, yet every foreign touch feels like a bomb dropping on your body — it's because of all the shame of existing. I wish there was something poetic about that. However, there's just something very wrong about the way I'm living. 

quarta-feira, 12 de abril de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°59 - WANTED

Well, how you doing? Cool. I'm the way I've always been (between psychotic and depressed) Oh, why am I writing in english? Cause I'm fucking tired of having to translate my thoughts. When I'm seeing my doctors and we start talking about my shitty life, it feels like there's a timer just in front of my head counting how many time I'm wasting by being a bored dipshit with a fucked up brain that gave me a personality disorder. I guess that's what pisses me off the most when I think about going to these appointments; logically I understand that my rage comes from the undeniable fact that they're telling me all the stuff I need to hear, but it is still painful and gets under my skin like fire, burning up every other emotion. But hold on, the worst is yet to come. I'm technically pretty fucking useless and still don't have a single fucking clue of what I'd like to do with my life. So, who'd like to be my friend right? I don't have nothing but Korean music to talk about. Pretty sure I'm human version of watching paint dry. Don't get me wrong, I love all of my friends whom for an unusual cause still consider me their friend. I just feel like I belong less and less in other people's lives like I'm an old version of a program that doesn't run at all in a new upgraded software. I can't avoid wanting and wanting attention and surprises and to feel wanted and loved and not for a second to doubt this, even if my disorder is screaming the contrary in my head. I know I'm not my disorder, but in the end I kinda am. How do I ask somebody to deal with my feelings being  50x more intense than what other normal people experience? I can imagine in seconds at least 20 different scenarios of you abandoning me. I know it's not always real, but it's not something I can control. But I wanted to be wanted, so bad. I still do, I guess. I've made up my mind a certain time ago that I won't get in romantic relationships, but I still have my friends. I still could have more friends. It's easier for me when I want to disappear; sometimes everything is too much and the world doesn't need to see me breaking down. It's always been hard for me to to people in, mostly because of the 20 meters layers of  thick concrete that I used to build a fortress around me since I was a kid. People don't like walls, it's hard work that you don't even know if it will pay off. So, here I am, FBI's most unwanted. I'm always checking up how you're doing and I know that I never apologized for being a piece of shit 3 years ago, because as you may have noticed by now I'm always with my head sticked far up my egocentric ass. I hope you know that none of what I said back then was true. It was just depression eating me up for breakfast, lunch and dinner. As long as you're all okay, I'm okay. No need to hurry, to worry; I'm not going anywhere for now. This is not my home, however all of you treated me very well, and I'm always thankful. Sorry if I end up never fitting in; I never belonged here anyway. All of my best memories come from this special place of special people, my own secret magic garden inside my fortress.

"Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else." Richard Siken

domingo, 26 de março de 2017

The Depression Diaries, n°58 - Carta fechada

Na maior parte do tempo é difícil pra mim saber exatamente onde eu estou e se eu realmente existo. Às vezes eu consigo passar um bom tempo centrada, sem muitos episódios de raiva ou ódio de mim mesma. Eu procuro falar o suficiente com meus amigos; mando mensagens e mesmo que às vezes não respondam, já é algo pra mim. As conversas que tenho me fazem sentir de carne e osso, e quase por um momento eu esqueço que no fim eu vou esquecer da maior parte disso tudo. Eu vou religiosamente ao psiquiatra e ao psicólogo, dois engodos que eu suporto por causa de minha mãe. Eu continuo não querendo viver, mas ninguém me dá ouvidos. Enquanto não aprendem a arte de deixar ir, eu fico remoendo toda minha trajetória até aqui, tudo o que meu transtorno destruiu, tudo o que ele sem pudor nenhum me tirou. Minha criação se baseou em atacar pra me defender; queria eu não ter sido assim, todo dia eu me arrependendo por algo que não é minha culpa. Como alguém ataca a si mesmo e sobrevive? Alguém sempre tem que pagar um preço, nunca é o perpetrador. Foi difícil aceitar que meu cérebro e eu nunca vamos estar em bons termos, afinal ele é um amante que me manda sinais de duplo sentido e eu me canso de ter que interpretar. Eu não pedi pra ser assim. Eu nunca quis ser assim, mas quem me trouxe a esse mundo cinza, que às vezes se colore quando as pessoas certas sorriem, nunca me viram como uma peça do tabuleiro; eles não viram quando o embate deles me empurrou pra fora da plataforma de xadrez. O rei e a rainha se degladiaram; eu fui pisoteada e nem percebi. Eles fizeram a eu que (acho que) existe hoje, e ao meu ver perdão nunca foi uma opção. O quão diferente eu poderia estar agora se eles não tivessem quebrado algo dentro de mim que não tem conserto? Eu me pergunto isso quase todos os dias. Tenho quase certeza de que não vou estar aqui ano que vem, mas sou grata por todos os meus amigos estarem bem, por todos os momentos (até os menores que não lembram) que eles partilharam comigo. Eles ainda são bonitos na minha memória, e perdão se eu nao puder estar em alguns próximos. Eu estou tentando muito não me odiar em tamanha grande escala, mas eu vivo com o inimigo. Bem, isso era pra ser um texto que pessoas seletas entenderiam, então deixa eu dizer: eu não te fiz, você que se construiu na pessoa excepcional que hoje és. Eu amo e sempre vou amar sua cabeça maluca, sou mais do que grata de receber seu amor; eu te escolheria em qualquer mundo. Sinto muito se o banheiro chegar pra nós algum momento não muito longe; você foi como  o sol pra mim por muitos anos e não há palavras suficientes pra minha gratidão. Você não me deve nada, lembre disso; enquanto você estiver feliz e saudável eu vou estar contente, e obrigada por ter tentado lutar por mim. Nossa afinidade foi o que nos uniu e não houve um dia sequer no qual eu deixei de pensar em você como minha amiga mesmo com todo nosso afastamento natural; sempre esteve no meu coração no lado mais florido. Meu amor não tem data de validade, não tem barreiras nem condições. Eu não perdôo, porém amo. Meu desejo é que toda a raiva dentro de mim se tornasse um combustível pra alimentar a felicidade de todos aqueles no meu coração, por que deus, só assim ela teria ela serventia além de me fazer abrir buracos em paredes. Eu continuo existindo num bolsão atemporal assistindo o mundo morrer enquanto eu ainda continuo viva, quase como por castigo. Seria bom poder lembrar das atrocidades que cometi e me transformaram em Atlas.