To look at your face and be assured that everything is going to be ok...

Still

To Not discover anything new
but within yourself
is to look outside and not feel the buzz of novelty
in the falling leaves
in the laughter of someone's child
or just, when looking up, at the shapes of the clouds...

To Be still, to not discover anything anymore,
due to the growing exhaustion of the days...

Kid

The laughter of a child
brings back my memories of a kid
who was never mine
but that I loved as my own.

It haunts me, now and then.

I chase them away immediately
as if they were mosquitoes menacing to sting me.

Reminding that the kid is 11 and I do not know him,
still feels like waking up from a vivid dream.

Psyche

I write to survive the fact that I'm not living
it's just my way of injecting myself with morphine in this slow death.

I've had them all before, but not him, not quite yet, he remains a mistery to me.. He is utterly complex, his mind is beyond comprehension, and maybe that's why I will never be done with him.
No matter how hard it is, I always love him and I never give up.


Many times, I realize I am as misterious and also not even so clear to myself: it's what you are, what you think you are and the aspects that you show to others; which can also be neither of them.
There was no need for such complexity.. And you can't even pour it into a glass and drink it.. Just a waste.

Leisure, by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare. 

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.