it all makes sense right now
the way silence consumed your body
contrasting the hopeful spirit i put an effort to have
i could always feel my head trying like infinite
to help everything fall into place one day
to do whatever we'd decide and agreed on together
i was willing to write ourselves into some kind of miracle that might happen right before our eyes

now it just hurts.
now that i know i would never be your miracle.
hurts like and autoimmune disease that takes off chunks of yourself little by little everytime you reminisce.
hurts like no matter what may come, there can always be unsaid words somewhere within your mind, nowhere to be found, because you don't want them to be found.
unsaid as the silence after breaking my heart over your body
again and again

i dont know how to see it now
now that everything makes sense
i think it's the worst part of being alone:
being alone with the broken thoughts caused by being traumatized

one may help you get through the day
many can distract you for a couple hours
but as the day ceases, and everybody settles down to rest,
you're there, still stuck in between your misty thoughts.
traumatized.

we all know we can heal, there's nothing to say about that.
we all know it takes time, and that there's a lot of things you can do while you grieve. to ease the process. to be kind to your own misadventure.
but there are days when you wake up remembering the trauma is alive and breathing inside your chest...
and those will just hurt.
hurt like we're trying to help by taking off chunks of our own self
hurt like broken thoughts without any distractions
hurt like everything makes sense in an awful way to carry around.

and now it just hurts.

i've always liked pain. not pain itself, not getting hurt or injured or anything dark like that,
just the feeling of remembering that i am this piece of human being and things may be overwhelming sometimes. and it's ok. 

i don't know, it makes me feel humble and think about life how it really is.

today i drove by the old city's graveyard to talk to my father. how we never really spoke to each other and how we never shared anything other than a few cromossomes. i always visit him and wonder about life out loud. sometimes i think he is much more talkative now than he were alive. 

daddy, remember our random butterfly kisses? 

i hated it. 

once i told you i didn't want to do that anymore. you laughed at it first then made spooky faces to make me regret what i said and kiss you back. i didn't. i think from this moment on we grew farther and farther away from each other. i never came over anymore to watch movies at your place while you were at work and never ever stopped by to have lunch together.

now take a look at your house. it's exactly what i would build if i had the money. you made a big swimming pool to practice on, a room full of music records and another one just to play instruments as loud as you'd want to. i'd take a third one to build an art studio and shut down the barbecue-bar thing, but that's already a great start. 

you know i still have that folder full of poetry you used to write i found one day snooping in on the basement, right? last year i bought a typewriter and when i compare both words we tend to type, it looks like we're co-writing, side by side. except i would never write about woman or beer, but yeah, we write quite alike.

whenever i stop by to whisper my thoughts to you and reminisce about our life that never got to intersect, i realize more and more that we never ever splitted up. you were always growing inside me, and somehow i know this makes you feel something as well, wherever you are. i know these cold breezes that pass me by when i'm around you have been here way too long to understand how this really works. how life works. these things cromossomes do that bind stuff together... that's how life works. 

sometimes i don't understand why is it that people get so worried on new year's day, about new year's resolutions.
i mean, i love organizing my self and setting up goals and everything, don't get me wrong.
but we actually have new weeks more often, and brand new days to start over. to get things done. it's a new fresh start every twenty four hours or so.
i love to remember the fact that we are always a single mess on the inside. we all get our own problems, and we all want to do things and make ourselves look and feel less chaotic.
now having second thoughts at new year's stream of consciousness, i kinda get it. it could be something like everyone trying to think together how to be a better person, a big sharing of the joy of hoping we could do better. on this side, that's fine. i just don't like the waste of the other days of the year. imagine if we could have that feeling and hold it for every month, just for starters. that would be 11 more to do lists to check out. and plus a whole load of the feeling that we possess the power for change. and for chasing our dreams, which are definitely not concentrated over one day of the year, they tend to blossom on random nights. i wish we would just think more about it. about new weeks, about clean slates, about chasing our dreams as we wake up. maybe the new year will start on april this time. or maybe by the end of september. and maybe we could have twice the new year's day in the same year.

It is impossible not to think about the new days.

I mean, is it real that some people really don't spend their time thinking about how things change, how routine will happen anywhere you go, how you will always feel small or unhappy from time to time, not meaning you are really defined by none of that?

One day you're undressing to a hot bath and life seems so hard (and we know nothing about it), the other week you look at some random craft you once did on your own and get overjoyed by the fact that you can actually make something out of the chaos.

It's kinda like we would have to keep breaking our own hearts and, meanwhile, realize that it is just simply like that. It will always be.

No matter how you re-think a thousand times a choice to be made (still do it), no matter what is it that you want to become some day (man, we actually grow up), we will still be heartbroken.

I get intimidated by the mess. I feel like I am this little confused pale dot around clear skies. On those days I like to go swimming. To feel the enormous amount of water folding around my body as I seep into it, the change of temperature in its depths, the sound of nothing we hear while dancing around billions of molecules. It is like everything makes sense. I don't even understand what sense is. All I know is that there is a fine line between what we feel and what it really is. Oxygen, chloride ions, carboxylic acids, chlorophytaes, queratin. I guess the only way to blend into nature's immutable clutter is actually becoming part of it.

little wacky thing writers do is to remain on a fact that already happened hours, days, weeks before.
just for the sake of it bringing memories.
not that it is just something for writers, no.
i think it's not even a thing relative to artists only.
maybe it is just for the people who have always something to think about on the back of their heads
people who simply like to keep thinking, who never get their brains to stop.

you see writers composing all those painful contemplations about sad stuff that life throws randomly from day to day
i think it's a magnificent type of art to make words look pleasing even if they're speaking of awful things.
wordsmanship.
crafting phrases to sound like they're on a sheet music being held by a maestro of vocabulary.

i have become very fond of sad stuff. sad writing. i believe in people who have suffered.
i just find beauty on the dark background that follows the made-up-simple heavy lettering.
the idea of fighting back whatever bad feeling it causes, in order to have beautifully arranged self notes.

but i'll rely on the happier thoughts, this time.
all because of you, which i got easily embraced in a clasp with.
easily, electric, winged.
like gentle wind growing faster and building hurricanes
your sweet rain of kisses becomes a storm inside my chest
and i have been in a hurry
for you to breathe myself out,
for you to ease my disturbance,
for me to spellcheck you,
willing to see my words on your lips.
oh, your lips.
sometimes i don't even pay attention to the content it is putting out loud,
i just love to see them moving.
crafting phrases to sound like we're notes, dancing on a background of sheet music.
i like recalling the way you talk to me. all the time.
just for the sake of it bringing memories
of facts that happened hours, days, weeks before.
i have become very fond of you.
of your words, of your contemplations,
of the things i just love to keep thinking about, and i never get my brains to stop.
even if it is something that happened hours, days, weeks before.
this little wacky things writers do.

It's a well known cliche to write about happiness. Our multiple awarenesses of how do we achieve our own little bright spot, and how dynamic we start to feel.
I always loved thinking about stuff. Thinking about feeling happy, thinking about the lining that surrounds the happy feelings. Thinking about thinking.
Sometimes, I even get happier just by resting my thoughts on the fact that I am currently thoughtful. Thinking about thinking.

We were running upwards the hills. I was clearly losing the running competition thing, of course. The countless shades of the grass right below our feet were driving me crazy. Sap green, fern green, phtalo and yellow green. I can't just pass through all the tiny ivory euphorbiaceaes like they were not calling me. And the cliff itself.. it looked like a big lump underneath this vivid-moss-green carpet from a far. Besides, I always loved being left behind while walking. That way I could kinda observe more. Look at things moving. Look at people passing through me, and look at what they would be doing. It's like I am in a separate place, in a separate plane, watching everything roll by right before my eyes. And, of course, it is easier to start thinking when you stop to observe. I always loved thinking about things.
I was feeling this strange-but-at-the-same-time-well-known dynamic. I was multiplied by the tiny bits of peaceful spots around me. Happiness.

You don't know yet, but I was just standing there, watching you race towards the summit. Watching you become more and more out of focus, out of sight, thinking about your silhouette getting closer to where I was supposed to meet you. But I stopped. I did not paralyze, I stopped because I wanted to. I was not catching my breath. I was carefully catching everything that held my eyes so firmly on that one location, and locked it into my mind. I was waiting for everything to take over me. Every thing. From the little white petals swaying progressively as the wind howled in such a powerful and limitless strength, to the way your hair followed the direction of the air, along all the euphorbiaceaes, making me feel shivery on the inside.

It is exactly that dynamic I felt while I was static the whole time.
I was just resting my thoughts on the fact that I was currently thoughtful. It's like I am in a separate place, in a separate plane.
Suddenly, amongst all of the thinking about thinking, there you are, looking at me.
Your big, overjoyed, amber-hazel upbeat eyes, calling me over.
You don't know yet, but there we are:
Dynamically,
static,
Peacefully paralyzed while moving.
Just...
happy.

Close your eyes. How do you feel it? I shut my eyelids, but I still sense the contrast between your silhouette and the pinkish cloudy skies. Vividly. Doesn't it feel like we're somehow speaking on the innermost? Sometimes we look at each other and say a million phrases containing no words.
It's fascinating.

I like the way the water embraces my body. I feel like it is talking to me. Softly. Like it is telling me how fragile I am. Slowly I rest my fingers on the surface, touching the tiny part that is in between the air and the very first wet particles. I could play through the hydrodynamics as if I am touching piano keys in an one-instrument adagio. I love adagios. I love how sad and sweet the little notes sound like put aside slow beating marks. I love slow.

And so I let myself pour into the liquid. Strikes one as a little dance. Strong molecules dancing around naked skin cells. It could be something in the midst of a waltz and a piano adagio. Slowly. How do you feel it?
I close my eyes, and the hot moisture mixes up with the alcohol pumping from my bloodstream to my brains. I can almost touch the letters flowing around the atmosphere, willing to be written somewhere. I look at you and I want to write. I want to be able to tell things I could never put into words. I want to reify the endless abstraction of looking into your wide pupils and seeing a billion of thoughts. Sometimes you don't want any light to get into you. That would overload your mind. You're right. That's why I keep waiting outside your lines, anyways. I don't mind spending my time on the intervals that connect what I want and what fits your needs. I think everyone should be comfortable with their inner self before putting it out there. My inside awaits patiently to be dwelled into your psyque. Slowly. Strikes us both like a little dance.
And so I watch you from my pace. I know the feeling of being carried away. By soft piano notes, by the sultry steam breeze, by the sound of our fingertips pressed onto each other. No need to ask you how do you feel it. Sometimes we look at each other and say a million phrases containing no words. It would be just a foolish act to demand a bunch of vowels and consonants to describe perceptions of sensibility.
I still think everyone has to be comfortable with their inner sights. But passion is never comfortable. It is definitely not slow. I look at you and I want to write. I close my eyes and the tiny dots of random stars become thousands of words I cannot fathom into one sentence at a time.
And so I pour myself into you. Slowly, at my pace, but hurried on the unconscious part of me. You're right, that overloads one's mind. Every single time. But I don't mind spending my time on those intervals that connect us. I just love how this bittersweet desperation keeps me pumping around the atmosphere. Keeps me feeling vivid. I feel like it is talking to me, and I gotta talk back to it. Write back to it.
And so I let myself pour into the vowels and consonants. Into your lines. Slowly. Hurried. Softly. Eyes open, eyelids shut. Sometimes we don't even look at each other, but we still say a billion phrases inside and out.
It's just fascinating.