(A) Memory

I feel the touch of silk on a steel bar that I hold on to because I'm climbing up the stairs of the subway station and lately my knees have been quite hesitant to tread in the city life.

Everyone is rushing so stressed, like they're running from an unstoppable train...

Just moments ago, the memories paraded beyond my eyes in a kind of military march, station to station: the meeting point where I finally meet the one; the place where all dreams were supposed to come true and, nearby, the sad horrors houses; the place where all dreams are suffocated; the adventure of the unknown; the station that read "Love" on the subway's carriage window reflecting backwards the station's name and "we were so happy here"; once upon a time a kind of refuge and beautiful citywalks all the way down to the river.

Why does it hurt not having a person anymore?
It hurts because we were happy once.

I met you when you were blind

One day, below the blonde sky,
I thought I heard a lullaby coming from the sea
But as the sun started to peek behind the haze
I could clearly hear the children cry

One day, below the charred sky,
I thought I heard a plea coming from the trees
But as the light trespassed the surrounding forest
I could silently hear the birds who die

One day, below the sandy sky,
I thought I heard a blast coming from the desert
But as the blazing heat waves danced in sight
I could hardly hear the people fly

One day, below the red sky,
I thought I heard shots coming from the buildings
But as the flashes struck my weary eyes
I could vividly hear the soldiers lie

Are you still blind?

Art tries to cleanse the horrors of life from inside you. And all you've seen of so intensively gruesome and all that has been done to you, all the suffering you've endured at the hands of those cruel, egotistical, manipulative and vile persons, will be exorcized by the hand of the purity of a beautiful watercolors' brush stroke.

One of the most wonderful things it's to be able to say "I did this, I overcame this" and, that, no one can take away from us.

There's such beauty in abandoned buildings sometimes..., just like there is in abandoned people, I guess.
But then again "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder"...

My skin barely hanging from my bones
and the music roars loudly and careless.
We are but shallow figures of men;
because Giacometti saw us as we are
and all the extra meat suits we've got
are nothing but lard to be burned
to fill the air with the stench of hell,
just to remind us of humanity's grotesque
and that the Tower of Babel was a flop,
because we're all destined to damnation.