The Depression Diaries, n°73 - Voltando às raizes para escapar da ideologia imperialista

Eu rodo em círculos, todos os dias. Durante o dia, minha mente se esvai como areia entre os dedos, impossível de manter em um lugar, só se eu tentar me distrair o suficiente com todas as formas de mídia do mundo. À noite, eu fico menor que um grão da tal mencionada areia, ainda assim uma dinamite prestes a explodir e matar metade do mundo, do meu mundo. O mundo em si vai continuar girando e postando selfies no Instagram como sempre, é claro.

A verdade é que eu não sei pra onde ir na vida. Eu nunca achei que chegaria tão longe, eu estava brincando quando fiz todos aqueles planos com vocês, e agora eu me deparo com a realidade de mim mesma. Como se aceitar? Parando de escrever em inglês nesse blog que ninguém lê pra tentar ser menos pretensiosa, voltando pra academia pra finalmente perder os quilos eu eu deveria ter perdido há anos? A quem eu devo o quê, exatamente? A mim mesma, claro. Se eu falo em minha língua eu dou poder ao ato, ele existe e está embaixo da minha cama pronto para agarrar minhas canelas assim que eu puser meus pés no chão. Eu vou estar livre dele em outra cidade, em outro país? Os nossos demônios tendem a ser nossos mais longevos companheiros, lamento informar, ou pelo menos é o que dizem por aí.

Eu queria deixar registrado também que eu sinto falta de tudo. Das conversas, das bebedeiras, das roladas na grama da faculdade que eu nunca terminei e que me atormenta até hoje. Eu sei que eu não sou menos por não ter um diploma, mas eu daria tudo pra ter estado bem quando eu poderia estar bem para aproveitar os momentos finais, o brilho eterno que nunca se esvai da memória do que presencia. Eu queria ter estado lá, eu queria ter sido brilhante também. Mas não me arrependo de nenhum momento vivido dentro daquele lugar, minha juventude está gravada ali como uma fita VHS na qual não se há mais aparelho pra assistir.  

Esse é um dos pedaços do círculo que eu rodo diariamente, enquanto minha vida não começa. Ainda há tempo de crescer? Diz uma música que eu gosto muito. Eu torço pra que sim. Acho que nunca tive a chance de crescer direito, e obviamente não ajuda muito a minha situação. Eu já aceitei que eu vou ser fodida hoje como também daqui a seis meses mas talvez não tão fodida daqui a um ano, porém eu preciso de uma mão amiga. Eu preciso sair daqui e viver minha vida como uma adulta vive, sofrendo e sorrindo e quebrando a cara e o coração, mesmo que me custe tudo que eu vou apostar. Tudo isso é melhor do que viver rodeando um sentimento de vazio, sem perspectiva nenhuma de que as coisas possam melhorar, que eu possa viver e não somente sobreviver.

Eu estou tentando começar de novo. Vamos ver onde isso me leva. Mas por favor, tenha paciência comigo.

The Depression Diaries, n°72 - I want to tell you a story

I want to tell you the story of how I made it. I want to tell you how hard some days were, when I felt nothing at all and on those where it was too much — it was too hard to breathe, you know? I want to tell you the story of the beauty within pain, the story of the plants that thrive and grow through concrete cracks, I want to show you that, hey, that was me. I want to tell you how I was ripped apart when I had to let go, but I want to tell you that I survived. God, I just want to tell you that I made it. I want to make it. I want to be more than just this aching heart, a whole person with a future just like anyone else.

I want to tell you that I abandoned it here because I made it. I want to run out words to say not because the end of this story is near, but because I moved on into a new story.

But I didn't. I spent my youth drowning in sorrow and I'm still drowning, so I understand it's not a pretty sight to have. There's no beauty in pain, there's nothing to thrive on. I'm afraid I'm nothing but this, and this, darling, this is not what anyone imagines for their child.

I want to tell you the story of how this life became worth living, but I'm not there. I'm not even sure how I'm still here.

The Depression Diaries, n°71 - Home is far away

Once I get home, the thunderstorm inside my chest that pulses way too stronger for a normal one will find peace in the place I belong to. In that place — not this world, never has been — I walk among good recollections and, God, it doesn't hurt anymore, because you're there sitting beside me in bed while I smoke a cigarette. You're there and I don't make you feel tired of seeing me carrying too much sadness on my back whenever you see me, I want to shine like the stars that make your eyes sparkle with astonishment. I walk those gates again and nothing inside my chest creaks as I step on my own heart over and over again, but you just watch like it's a street show that momentarily caught your attention. It's okay, for you, for me. I wish you well, I wish you the world I would've given you if I wasn't me. If we could meet again.

Home feels like a bunker, a protection from air strikes dropping bombs everywhere, everyday; because I'm there, because you're there, because my cat is there, and also the drawings on my wrist that you cursed to be unable to remove forever. Under the dim golden light of the bedside lamp, you look like you deserve to be crowded by commoners that won't ever fully comprehend your features, you look like the divinity, your hands could prove it with a single fingerprint. It is under that lighting that you hate to see me, the skin that isn't my skin melts all across your carpet and I'm saying I'm sorry for being the way I am, but you're too tired to listen, anyways. You let me have the bittersweet victory. You look at me and weariness fills your being, oh how I understand that this is not the you meant for me. It's the other you, waiting for me back home, you that not see me for who I pretend to be. 

I'll get there someday. You, and you, and you too will be there too, I'm sure, I didn't recognize your soul for nothing, it was written in my DNA, translated into my bloodstream to quiver at the sight of your face, and I'm so sure you are waiting for me to go back home. I won't be myself there, only the self I was meant to be, cloaked under these layers of lies, because I do not belong here, please understand when you see me filling a suitcase. To be sad is quite a difficult thing, my dear. Not everyone can walk around with an anchor inside their chest, but I'm quite used to it by now, just like I'm used to pretend I don't think about you anymore. I do, I did, I'll do. See you on the other side, you, you, you.

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.

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. 

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.