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.