Wasting words.

I wonder why, of everything one could write about, I am only able to write about relationships (or their endings). It seems an awful waste to use such gift, that is the the ability to write, to do it regarding such trifle matters.

Not only that but I also wonder why all these doubts even arise. Why all the moments repeat themselves with no random cause. I wonder why can’t I grow up after all the mistakes I keep making, why is everything is always so irrational.

And then I think of you. Of how I loved to kiss you, of how I loved to be sitting on your lap and you kept kissing my neck line and all I wanted was for you to pick me up and take me to my room. And how you knew it and did it without me even saying a word. Then I also remember how I met others that did the same, or different, it doesn’t actually matter, and I think that this was all irrelevant. How you should be irrelevant. And why aren’t you.

You see, the thing is that, we, the overthinking ones, need to find reasons for everything, or solutions, or future scenarios that magically solve everything. That’s why I always pretend to believe that if it is meant to be, sooner or later, it will happen. Too bad I don’t actually believe that 'us' will ever happen. Too bad I still remember the empty look I saw in you the last time we were together, or how I felt that it didn’t make sense at all, or how suddenly we both just felt so uncomfortable for being together and how I felt hurt by it.

And now I am wondering what kind of writer I am, what kind of writer could I be if I actually wrote. What kind of person am I, what kind of person people would think I am, if they read all I that wanted to be able to write, and knew that everything they were reading was true.

I kissed another person on that balcony, on that kitchen, on that dinning room... I sat on his lap and let him kiss my neck line. And then I got up and I went to bed; without him. Cause even if I did all this I still felt that room as being yours, as being ours. The same way that I know that it never was.

Stupid thing, this, of relationships, or their endings. Stupid thing, this belief, or this disbelief, of thinking, of overthinking, of feeling, of not being able to feel, of writing, even if… even if it should be done in a beter subject.

Playing Fox and Hound (and losing)

Well Darling, you should know better, it’s not like people can just fuck around and expect something good to come from it. I know you had illusions of having built solid relations and that you really had friends that were like a family, that everything was blue and gold, just perfect and neat. Even if you swore and you felt so determined not to fall in love. But at the end that’s the mistake of sleeping with someone that’s so close to you. It may go wrong. You may end up having feelings you don’t want to, that you try to suppress with all your might… You loose the independence that brought you there the first place. You get attached; you remain stuck to this place where somehow you found sense in what you were doing. Now you need to gather your best arsenal and fight yourself. You may suffer while doing it but that’s what should be done. That and never go back to that lovely French city you once thought to be a safe place, so far from what was harming you, not knowing that actually, you’re taking that pain with you all along.

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Writer's note: This is the result of a writing exercise using words provided by two people, back when I was living in Milan, at Rossi Bonardi's. I had several drafts of texts using the list of words they gave me, some much better than this one. But tonight I needed to let go of all of it: the list, the people, the memories, the pain. Of course that none will go away that easily, but time is the best medicine and meanwhile I fulfilled my task. Not writing is painful but writing is even more. Just what you need before start healing.

Recomeçar uma e outra vez...

Ninguém te contou o fim da história, tal como ninguém te explicou que ele se altera a cada gesto teu. Um dia acordaste e percebeste que era o fim e não fazia mal. Não faz mal o que deixas para trás porque não é com isso que construirás o futuro. E afinal, se a bola ficou do outro lado do campo sem se mover, nada resta mais a fazer do que deixa-la estar e começar uma nova partida.

O dia começou cinzento, talvez um prenúncio dos tempos que viriam. Eu esperava pelo conforto de uma cara conhecida mas na realidade ainda antes de lhe reconhecer as feições adivinhei-lhe a postura. Não me lembro que palavras trocámos nesse primeiro encontro. Como de costume tinha poucas horas de sono e já tinha atingido o estado de me mover apenas graças à adrenalina que corria no meu corpo.

Ninguém te aconselhou a não cometeres os mesmos erros de sempre, tal como ninguém precisou de te explicar que essa tarefa é tua. Um dia acordaste e soubeste que tinhas cometido o mesmo erro de sempre, mas tiveste a esperança de conseguir lidar com ele. Afinal quantas vezes precisamos de cometer o mesmo erro para aprender a dar a volta sem nos magoarmos?

O sol começou então a brilhar e eu sorria. Durante algum tempo tudo parecia fugir ao terrível destino a que aqueles erros me costumavam conduzir. Tinha sido dessa vez que eu tinha enganado o destino e escapado impune aos meus erros.

Ninguém te conseguiu demover face à tua arrogância, tal como ninguém teve força de te puxar de novo à Terra – nem mesmo tu – quando todos sabíamos que estavas prestes a cair… de novo.

O sol deixou de ser fonte de alegria para se tornar tão forte que sufocava. Eu estava presa, enclausurada no meu próprio devaneio. A ingenuidade trespassava-me o peito provocando grossas lágrimas. Dói sempre mais quando não há ninguém para culpar senão nós mesmos.

Ninguém te soube confortar porque nem tu sabias o que doía, tal como ninguém te conseguiu erguer, porque essa tarefa é só tua. Por isso resta-me apenas dizer-te: ergue-te.