quando o espaço parece anular o tempo

memories collector

I've always wanted to be one of those people who, from the crib, know they will be doctors, pianists, teachers. I never did, I never knew.

(ignore the following long-very-long paragraph)

But now I do (what I always aspired): from the crib, I always attempted to be some kind of artist. I tried ballet when I was very young, but I do not remember much of that. Later I tried the keybords; took two months of classes and gave up. Throughout my childhood people complimented my drawings by asking "do you take drawing classes? no?! how come you draw so well?". I drew alright, I guess. I did take classes as a teenager, and then I met people who really had the gift for it. I didn't (or I just didn't try hard enough). I loved taking part on school plays or shows of any kind. Once my dad was so very well impressed by a presentation he said "if you decide to be an actress, I'll support you". Of course he is my dad, but encouraging me to choose a profession so faded to failure must have meant something. I loved the feeling of being in a stage. Once I realized I shoud be a film actress: the chance to live a different fantasy through every screenplay. Of course I wasn't really good - or at least never took it seriously. I've always wanted to learn how to sing, too (since my playing of musical instruments didn't go that well). I took classes during university, sometimes being praised. But the money and the time were short, and I basically forgot all I had learned (which wasn't much yet). My third grade teacher called me her "poet", and I did venture through poetry until high school. Later, I undertook prose. Teachers and friends told me how well I wrote. I had a ridiculous blog (yes, this one). Writing was my excuse to get into Journalism in university (even doing poorly on the essay, i made it in). I came to loathe journalism sometimes, and decided to become a writer. The thing is I met people who were really meant to be writers, and I wasn't one of them. Or I simply never took the time to write. I always enjoyed taking photos, but by the time I decided to invest in it I was already skeptical about my ability to be really good at anything. Yeah, I basically tried everything, was reasonably good at most of it, but never outstanding.

How I figured it out? Because everytime I think about how I want to live my life I realize it is like an artist. I am an artist, in soul. I just don't have my art.

So it comes to me: it doesn't matter what I do. I can do anything, I can do nothing, as long as I can pass by. Because what I'm meant to do is collect memories. I don't see life in terms of what I've accomplished, but in what I've lived, what I remember. I could transform and preserve these memories in any kind of art, but the point for me isn't the art: it's the memory, even (specially, actually) if no one else understands it. So the hell with art, with talent. I'm a memories collector.

want to be one of those people on horses

rainy days

a collection of all i've ever written about you

from the beggining to the end:

insomnia

deu o play

ele dormia; ele não. com ele, ela sim (uma frase)

chove lá fora

auto-usurpação

não, obrigada. comi miojo

saudades daquele som

por que não pára

castelo de paredes brancas

eyes too small

caressing the keyboard

the coloured house

stain

why do i come home to you

fgm.

that wrinkle

i'm over

i am a terrible person

finally

pergunta-me por que escrevo?

a collection of all i've ever written about you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o81gkXxNrBk

yes, this is all messed up. not that i tried, just turned out this way.

and hopefully it's really the end.

and then i cried. not because i was sad or anything. just because it felt like the right thing to do.

Feelings of the day

Lazyness;
Annoyance;
Guilt;
Small pleasure;
Powerlessness;
Desire;
Warmth;
Nostalgia;
Sadness;
Joy;
Shame;

Not in that order.

pergunta-me por que escrevo? pois escrevo pra esquecer.
o sol entrou pela janela e me acordou essa manhã, o mesmo sol que não passou pelas suas cortinas. mas você mesmo assim acordou, tomou seu café frio com quatro colheres de açúcar e pegou o ônibus, atrasado. você tropeçou no degrau da entrada do prédio e entrou na sala de aula batendo a porta atrás de si, sem querer. faltavam só alguns minutos para o intervalo, quando você saiu, encontrou um amigo no corredor, xingou um professor, pensou na namorada, achou uma moeda de vinte e cinco centavos. você ignorou os quinze minutos que se passaram e continuou parado no hall. discou um número no celular.

e foi nessa hora que eu desci as escadas e me perguntei se deveria, mais uma vez, dar a volta no prédio pra não te encontrar. não tive a coragem de ser tão covarde. você esperava uma resposta do outro lado da linha e me viu. me disse um oi silencioso, um beijo no rosto, rosto seu que nem olhei uma segunda vez. caminhei mais rápido, me distanciando. e percebi que nunca estive e nunca poderia estar novamente tão distante quanto quando nossos poros se tocaram.