I'm tired Afonso, it is too difficult sometimes.
I'm tired of sacrificing people in order to understand who I am.
What I like.
What I don't like.
What I want.
What I don't want.
What is is.
What I wish it was.
Every human relationship in my life seems to be a step up on a long, too long of a ladder. Leading, I know where, but why?
I was born to love, not to be loved. And to serve, not to be served, I repeat it to myself everyday. Yet, sometimes, all one wishes is to lay down and feel equally appreciated. Is that ego, Afonso? If it is, tell me and I get rid of it. But until then, let me ask why not feel that.
It is tiring. All I wanted was to find out things about me and move on. If it was a mistake, I'd correct it. If it is not, I keep going. Life is simple. Perhaps not for other people, whose will to give up is frequently bigger than their will to be happy. And there is the finity of everything, the shallow feelings, the illusions, the what ifs.
It is tiring, Afonso, but I want to break this wall. I have to. Punch by punch, little by little, piece by piece. And I'm doing it! Can you see, can you feel it? The problem is... I'm afraid. Tell me if you can: is it lonely at the other side?
---
segunda-feira, 14 de maio de 2018
sexta-feira, 4 de maio de 2018
Memories: Olivia 1
The following memory took place almost two years ago, during the time I spent in Newcastle upon Tyne aiming for my Masters degree.
-----
It was a funny day, as hot as possible for a British summer, but as cloudy as expected by anyone living in England for more than... well, 5 minutes, to be honest.
Olivia and I used to study French every other day in Marjorie Robinson Library. Our favourite spot was a little room by the northern corner of the third floor, one surrounded by wide windows that with an obnoxious view of the surrounding buildings. For me, born and raised brazilian, everything in England was beautiful. A dog's poo poo was beautiful. Myself there, sharing a room and teaching French to a nice, cute Chinese girl, was beautiful. Unexpected, but beautiful.
We left Marjorie Library by the end of the afternoon, when the sun was still at the top of the skies. Summer daya in Newcastle were strange. By ten pm you could still see splashes of blue among the yellow and pinkish gradients of the setting sun.
It was hot, something certainly not usual in the cold, cold Toon. We were both going down Northumberland Street, about to turn right to reach Grey Street and later the asian market. She put the back of her hands on the forehead and wiped off the sweat.
- It's sooo hot. - She said almost singing. Her Chinese accent never allowed her to talk without stretching specific words. I always thought it was cute.
- It fucking is. - I answered breathing heavily. I always had my bike with me, carried it from a place to another. My Ferrari, as Elena used to call it. Red and black, all spotted with mud and leaves.
- I thiiink... hum, it is ok for yoou, riiight? - She asked with a finger on her lip, looking at me. I stared back and raised an eyebrow just because she loved how I used to do it. My Chinese friends used to say I had a lot of "face plasticity".
- Hot is hot, no matter where you are. - I answered with a smile. She laughed. She would always laugh when surprised by something, even if not necessarily amused. When I helped her with her assignments, sometimes I would explain her a thing or two she couldn't understand. She laughed, not because it was funny, but because she was happy.
Olivia agreed with a movement of her head and looked the other way. Patisserie Valerie was still open and she muttered about not being able of eating sweets. She was making an acne treatment. I askes if she would eat a lemon tart if I paid for her. She smiled while pretending to think about it and finally agreed with the sweetest smile ever.
We went in. That afternoon we ate a lemon tart, scones and black tea served in a hand painted pot depcting pink and golden birds and flowers.
----
This memory was triggered by a cloudy day and House of Cards, by Radiohead, while walking out of Wizard in the end of an afternoon in May. The scent of the grass in a park reminded me of the square in front of Newcastle University. The sun behind the dark clouds were just like the Geordie skies I used to admire while riding back to Henderson Hall.
-----
It was a funny day, as hot as possible for a British summer, but as cloudy as expected by anyone living in England for more than... well, 5 minutes, to be honest.
Olivia and I used to study French every other day in Marjorie Robinson Library. Our favourite spot was a little room by the northern corner of the third floor, one surrounded by wide windows that with an obnoxious view of the surrounding buildings. For me, born and raised brazilian, everything in England was beautiful. A dog's poo poo was beautiful. Myself there, sharing a room and teaching French to a nice, cute Chinese girl, was beautiful. Unexpected, but beautiful.
We left Marjorie Library by the end of the afternoon, when the sun was still at the top of the skies. Summer daya in Newcastle were strange. By ten pm you could still see splashes of blue among the yellow and pinkish gradients of the setting sun.
It was hot, something certainly not usual in the cold, cold Toon. We were both going down Northumberland Street, about to turn right to reach Grey Street and later the asian market. She put the back of her hands on the forehead and wiped off the sweat.
- It's sooo hot. - She said almost singing. Her Chinese accent never allowed her to talk without stretching specific words. I always thought it was cute.
- It fucking is. - I answered breathing heavily. I always had my bike with me, carried it from a place to another. My Ferrari, as Elena used to call it. Red and black, all spotted with mud and leaves.
- I thiiink... hum, it is ok for yoou, riiight? - She asked with a finger on her lip, looking at me. I stared back and raised an eyebrow just because she loved how I used to do it. My Chinese friends used to say I had a lot of "face plasticity".
- Hot is hot, no matter where you are. - I answered with a smile. She laughed. She would always laugh when surprised by something, even if not necessarily amused. When I helped her with her assignments, sometimes I would explain her a thing or two she couldn't understand. She laughed, not because it was funny, but because she was happy.
Olivia agreed with a movement of her head and looked the other way. Patisserie Valerie was still open and she muttered about not being able of eating sweets. She was making an acne treatment. I askes if she would eat a lemon tart if I paid for her. She smiled while pretending to think about it and finally agreed with the sweetest smile ever.
We went in. That afternoon we ate a lemon tart, scones and black tea served in a hand painted pot depcting pink and golden birds and flowers.
----
This memory was triggered by a cloudy day and House of Cards, by Radiohead, while walking out of Wizard in the end of an afternoon in May. The scent of the grass in a park reminded me of the square in front of Newcastle University. The sun behind the dark clouds were just like the Geordie skies I used to admire while riding back to Henderson Hall.
Maps
You brought that to yourself.
I don't see you in the love songs anymore
But in the ones that talk about moving on.
You sentenced,
I executed.
It (is being) was a mess.
I don't see you in the love songs anymore
But in the ones that talk about moving on.
You sentenced,
I executed.
It (is being) was a mess.
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