Grandma, I miss you.

The best time of my childhood appears to me in the memories I have of my grandma; they are few and precious.

Her name was Serafina, but everyone knew her by Remediana - a word created by derivation of Remedy - because she used to be quite a healer as a person and also she knew about some old remedies that the ancient used. She was quite gifted: a crafty seamstress and exceptional on goan cuisine.

My found memories of her, go back to when she lived with me, when I was less than 9 years old; she used to take care of me and afterwards of my brother too (he was born when I was almost 6).

I used to sleep in the same bed as her; she used to make this funny noise with her mouth when she was sleeping, it was like she was blowing off candles of a birthday cake. Perhaps that's why I've always been insomniac...

Anyway, by day, we used to stay at home and she would ask me to pull out her grey hairs, one by one, which I did with all care (just in a simian-like ritual) and they would pile up in a big and fuzzy roll of silver strings. She used to knit also and I watched her to try and learn something.
In the warmer days, we would go to the park and I'd buy her favorite ice-cream which was lemon flavored.
We would encounter some neighbors and while I played in the park, she would sit and sometimes chat with some other elders.
And it seemed that everyone liked us a lot, and days  seemed so sweet in those tender moments of so much simplicity, that were the only ones sheltering me from all the harm would follow.

She was born on 12th November around 1920 (not sure about the year, 19, 20 or 21?), and she died on August 2003; I wasn't there in either moment, but the ones I spent with her, were everything to me, and this  so felt and difficult to make, is my homage to her, better yet, my thank you, even though she knew I was so thankful for having had her in my life, I miss her...

25.07.2011

As I write so consciously the date, I realize that there's an entwined power in the small lines that draw its numbers.

I had forgotten how much pleasure I used to take from writing with this pen. There's nothing like writing with this pen. There's nothing like writing by hand; having the opportunity of drawing a dance of letters: a romance or a fight, all depending of your state of mind in that instance.
What happened, that made me forget? Was it the new technologies? The hurried schedules?

I just want to rest now. Settle down for a while, in the company of my stainless steel ball pen and who knows what else is to come...

Dream, think, question, acknowledge.

Why think life, if living it as we want to is impossible?
Why live life as it is presented to us, if what we think of everything is so different and all we get is disappointment and frustration when we face the facts?
Why to dream of a better life, when in reality things will never be as dreamed?

All this loud and numerous ways of communicating and supposedly connecting, and yet everyone's much lonelier.
It's all so damn stupid and ultimately pointless.

the 100th post being:

I guess «Dream on, sucker!» is a really adequate sentence for me, but I'm hoping the person who said it to me didn't mean it that much.

What is that feeling?

What is that feeling, when you believe in something?
How do you describe it?
Is it like when you have a vivid dream
and then you wake up believing it was real?
Or is it more durable like an actual experience?

How does it feel exactly?
Does it hurt or does it shine inside you,
giving you some kind of eternal bliss?

My deficit for belief is rooted in my veins,
directly pumping to my heart,
poisoning it with disbelief.

So I'm hoping someone can tell me...
how does it feel when one believes.

«We're born alone and we die alone; all we have in between is suffering.
There's no greater sorrow than regret,
no greater power than love,
no greater gift than forgiveness»

( in the movie There be dragons, 2011)

Girl

«Have you seen the most beautiful girl in the world?
And if you did, was she crying?»

She smiled with her eyes and heart-shaped lips used to tell me the most sweet words.
Reminding me of someone I used to be, so happy when near her,
so drunk with the jasmine perfume she was wrapped on.

My eternal gift, the best of all, the girl,
the girl who made anything possible.

And now here I am, stuck in between memories of the days long gone,
trying to move on, but still feeling her scent on the air and her smile...
her smiling eyes that used to make my whole world brighter.

Will I ever see her again, the most beautiful girl in the world,
and if I do, will it last this time?

Happiness, I miss you

Happiness, I miss your tender touch
your full-bodied optimism
and the breeze that blows away all worries.

untitled

To love them as our own
and then lose them
and later on realizing they were never ours
...
there's a kind of emptiness that lingers on.

You spend your whole life trying to fill it
with moments of happiness
as the strands of hair fall through your fingers
like the days that slip away from your hands.

All in all there are no reservations for happiness
for it's all in your mind
you can create the world you want to live
you should create it
because it's the only way you'll survive it.

Dreaming memories

You come crawling into my dreams
like an uninvited insect on a summer night
slightly buzzing, trying to be unnoticed.
Or are you really?

I've shun you off my day-life,
now that you seldom appear,
but you've managed to get in my dreams
making me get  face-to-face with the reality
that you are asleep, in my sub-conscience,
always spawning in me webs of memories.

The brown-yellowish still-photographs in the eyes' retina
swarm my dormant mind and the child, that same child,
comes to me, to my arms again, as it did in a distant past.

I thought I was cured, but memories can't be deleted
especially when they're carved in our chest
with the darkest ink of pain and sorrow.

Something will always feel broken inside my heart
but I'm still hoping I can make it better
by mending it with patches of happiness
and plentifulness that are yet to come...
I hope.

Still, I couldn't ever tell why hope lingers above all evilness,
still I couldn't ever tell why the memories still haunt me now and then.