Tag: self consciousness

No good at keeping secrets

JOURNAL April 23, 2018

And maybe one night

when the air starts to feel warmer

we’ll all end up with glasses of discounted wine in our hands, climbing stairs to a rooftop

and olive stones crumpled up in white napkins

 

 

Like our talks on getting your skin inked without planning it,

long road trips

and real good friends you won’t see in years

 

– too wide for our eye bags filled with sleep to redeem and money to buy our summers of getaways to talk about on those city rooftops.

 

 

And maybe we’ll all end up wandering with no deadline,

leaving the office filling our days to give them all a fil rouge to follow,

some sort of bad excuse to hold tight to when having breakfast on a weekend with people curious about your way of phrasing your purpose, now and here.

 

 

 

Here’s to train rides with the sun setting fire to the sky of an April morning,

a man playing with a game boy on the seat next to mine,

the quiet promise of a flight booked in the secrecy of the night – not a word with anyone but your circle of trust and some strangers met along the way of those last days in your mother town.

 

 

Here’s to flights to be on time for,

months of improvisation and watering yourself along the way – it’s important to keep your curiosity alive and your roots well tied.

 

 

Here’s to days passing by without making much noise,

without weighing your body changing with landscapes outside the window of a house that you’ll make home in a new neighbourhood,

to the people to let out and those who’ll swing by and to those who’ll stay a while longer,

even when the glasses are empty and the clothes stained

with the scars you tried to hide.

 

 

Here’s to the stories to weave in yours,

and arms to fit in,

without losing the fil rouge you’ve been searching for in this tangle of thoughts you crafted in those times spent pondering and getting all wrapped up into it,

 

letting that fucking fil rouge slip from your fingers

– because too cautious,

because too scared to seek what you deserve.

 

 

Here’s to coffee paid with coins weighing in the pocket of your jeans,

falling into tiny bad habits to use as icebreakers

in hostels in the outskirts of unknown cities,

 

to the nights alone and those spent tracing new shapes and skins and voices in the space of a caress,

to burn them onto your mind and carry with you along the way.

 

Here’s to another glass emptied in your lungs craving for some fresh air,

the one you’ve been trying to swab with stories in mid-air and uncultivated love stories.

 

 

 

Here I find myself,

with a ticket bought in the secrecy of a midweek night,

 

holding tight to the promise I made to my 18-year-old self  of trusting this fil rouge

found right where I knew I’d find it,

within me.

 

 

I can’t wait to go get what this crazy ass world has to offer.

 

 

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Taming time, Hang in there

JOURNAL April 10, 2018

I often feel the urge to get it all done before it’s too late,

time knocking at my door and telling me to hurry up, to not lose balance, to find the time to go bring an icecream to my grandma, find a job, an affordable flat with a nice view and sqweeze in some pilates.

 

 

And I thought that organizing my days in to-do lists would’ve made it look much clearer,

much smoother.

 

But they don’t seem to ever find a happy ending,

and I can’t find the space to fit those minutes of lighthearted goofyness

and unrelated talks,

 

Of early afternoon walks or finishing one of the projects I keep shaping and modelling in my head and inevitably end up adding to the bunches of ready-to-bloom bunches, hide them in the closet and leave there until the right moment comes.

 

 

But I also figured that if you’re not yet there – where you thought you’d be by now,

hang in there.

 

 

This is not to say that all things will work out, that you’ll afford a studio with a view on sunsets and no traffic sounds waking you up on weekends.

 

But don’t spend your night crying your fears out and your days trying to tame them.

It never worked for anyone.

 

 

Just put a tshirt on, roll up your sleeves and get your butt to work.

 

 

 

The right time comes

when you decide to let it in. 

 

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It’s not enough To be compassionate

JOURNAL April 3, 2018

I bought myself a pair of socks saying

 

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And it stroke me like a lightning,

uncomfortable truth slapped right on my cheek by a pair of pastel-coloured socks.

 

 

And after months of denials, of nodding to please and saying yes but feeling no,

After months of struggling with bad days and grey moods,

perpetually roller-coasting between long laughter and long tears,

 

I came to the conclusion that coming to compromise with everyone but myself, well,

that isn’t enough.

 

 

So I finally realized that I can’t be the perfect daughter,

the spotless friend

or the flawless hostel roommate.

That’s simply not me, that’s simply not my thing.

And that’s fine.

 

 

 

It’s fine that I can’t have a flat stomach after eating a whole pizza,

that I can’t be the next viral singer

or succeed in my first attempts at washing ups, entrepreneurship trials and relationship.

And that’s fine.

 

 

But I also figured that the best way to fall asleep with a hint of a smile drawn on my face is accepting what it is that makes me, me,

 

and water it.

 

 

And I might end up all tangled up in my thoughts and walking the stiffest way,

but as long as I do things my way – scratches and scars and all things summed up -,

 

it’ll all work out

one way or another.

 

After all,

sprouts aren’t made to be pretty at all times,

they’re a promise of finding a way out.

 

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Throw me a Bone

JOURNAL March 30, 2018

A song I play quite often goes like this

” Throw me a bone,

Don’t be scared of what you don’t already know “

And I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it,

at first sight, it sounds like something trivial.

Over time and with all that’s come through in between,

well,

this doozy started to make a real nice sense.

And the sense it started to make has a pinch of melancholy within,

especially to someone like me –

who weighs words and commas and all the smallest details.

I’ve dreamt about this faraway land.

pictured it in the tiniest of details,

from the disposition of plants in the house

to how long it’d take me to get to the beach.

Stupid little things, you may think,

My happy places, I dream.

But for some reason, I don’t seem to grasp, that I don’t seem to baptize.

Here I am, still picturing it in its details,

this far away land,

repeating myself to sleep that maybe there’s no need to fly to the other side of this world to find myself at home,

to find my way to the balance I crave.

That it’s not the view from my window or the shades of the sand under my bare feet that’ll make me happier.

That what I need is already within me.

Some fucking where, flooded under these piles of freedom thoughts

and idealizations.

And so I distract myself with simple things

like weekend getaways,

restaurant dinners on Fridays

and subtle vices

– to swab this thirst of mine I don’t find the guts to shush

nor to water.

But then I think to myself that damn yes,

the view from my window and the smell of the ocean and the way to the beach and the shades of the sky, they all make a hell of a difference,

especially to someone like me who doesn’t want to give up wondering,

not even when the alarm goes off,

not even now I see I’m making some hell good paintings of these faraway dreamlands.

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Hard edges and Bad coffee but with laughter

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL March 26, 2018

I should be leaving the city in a handful of minutes

– fractions of the life I’ve tried on for a few days.

 

I’m at the bar down the road,

keeping my fingers crossed to meet some of those people you only meet in your travels,

bare enough to tone down the tangles messing around with my sleep,

good enough to smooth these hard edges of mine.

 

Keeping my fingers crossed to finally find a place to make home

– even if just for a handful of months,

even if just for a slice of time.

 

 

But I sit here,

playing darts with my days trying to hit the mark,

ignoring this bad sight of mine and my perpetual fear of not being enough,

of making a false step,

 

hoping to hit that fucking mark.

 

 

There are two bartenders making my coffee on a random early spring day

and I almost asked them if maybe,

by any chance,

they needed another pair of spare hands to dry all those chipped ceramic plates.

If maybe,

by any chance,

they were looking for another laughter to join theirs when dropping things

behind the counter, not taking things too seriously.

 

Because I came to realize that the infinite thirst I’ve been trying to swab for all this time with clothes I don’t have the occasions to wear and black ink,

kicking in my sleep and begging me to listen,

was nothing but a cry for lightheartedness,

fresh air

and coffees from whichever bar down the road of an ordinary city.

 

 

Lightness isn’t superficiality,

it is daring to be yourself,

trying lives on until you find the one that fits snugly.

 

I’m surely no expert when it comes to matters of the heart,

nor am I fortune-teller interpreting stars and signs,

but I’ve learnt that  the best gift you can give yourself is to let go of

the buoy of taking yourself too seriously

and get lost.

 

And when the soles of your shoes are paper-thin

and you run out of breath,

sit on a bench,

enjoy the view

and then go back to getting lost until you stumble on what you’ve been looking for.

And call it by its name

– little does it matter if we’re talking about heart,

balance

or god.

 

 

And what you may find is a bar down the road of whichever ordinary city,

where the coffee may be bad

– but it’s served by people with a smile drawn on their cheeks who laugh when they stumble behind the counter.

 

A tiny memo saying that it’s okay if you stumble,

that it’s fine to not be too hard on yourself.

 

 

 

A hot coffee, two bartenders behind the counter and all that’s within.

As simple as that.

 

 

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The first day of Spring

CORNERS, JOURNAL, TRAVEL March 24, 2018

I took a plane to Berlin, to breathe for a while.

Not that I have a lot to complain about – life flowing smoothly between

home-made dinners and ideas to put together in a life I get to choose.

 

 

But for some reason,

in this impeccable shoving of days like pearls in a thread,

I can’t seem to find balance and all those other phrasings to stay afloat.

 

So I get on trains and spend long nights in Nordic hostels of bunk beds and cheap drinks.

I look for what I want to hear in the words of those I happen to find along the way,

those things I don’t find the courage to trust – eternal promises I make with myself to plunge right into what I want and do it for real, this time.

 

Because this life I get to choose is waiting for me right there

on the seabed I don’t know the shape of,

under those layers of blue I keep having second thoughts about.

And I kick

and I shake

and I wiggle on this surface that now feels so tight.

 

And I wish I could just take a deep breath and row with who it is that I am and see what colour the seabed I dream about really is.

But for some reason, I hold tight to all trivial excuses and lighthearted talks,

stupid water wings I insist to wear not to go deep.

 

 

And I’m now drinking mint tea in an ordinary city,

yet another shot to find a place to call home, a space to fit in

– knowing for sure that all I want is to disappear in a line of bubbles flowing above my head, see the water get blue, black, and down, down a bit more,

touch the ocean floor

and grab a handful of sand.

And in that place so far from all ideas I’d ever painted in my mind until then

– in the furthest corner from what I’d ever known –

find home.

 

 

So here I find myself,

with miles under the soles of my shoes,

with the sketch of a butterfly given to me as a gift on the first day of spring.

Reminding me that spending too long anchored to the ground, you forget how to breathe.

 

 

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Full breath, Dive deep

JOURNAL March 20, 2018

I find myself in this paradox of a day, between these canals

the sun making my eyes look ajar,

like sullenly,

 

drinking hot tea

and biting a good attempt of pastel de nata

the wind tangling my hair

 

on an early weekday.

 

And just like this,

I find myself with my legs crossed under a table too tiny for my uncoordinated manners

and I don’t have a clear picture

nor a draft of the path to go,

no sign suggesting whether to turn right or keep stumbling on those familiar errors

that my head doesn’t seem to let go.

 

I don’t have a clue about where I’ll be

or how I’ll fill those hours between goodnight kisses and a quiet breakfast before the house awakes.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be doing things any other way,

not following the tricks given by who knows me by heart,

but following stars calculated to spans

and approximate sums of the shades of coffee in the mug

or of wine on the lips.

 

 

It’s time to take a full breath

and dive deep.

 

I’ve got a swimsuit under my jeans.

 

 

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