Waking up empty

All day I chased oblivion, all night I chased you. There was my cat and there were your kittens, there was a bunch of crazy people. I finally found you and your face looked different, but I knew better than to trust that. I trusted my gut and it led me nowhere, you still thought you were someone else. A thousand adventures through apocalypse, the feverish world exploding with detail - stories crossing, people passing... A few times we met, a few times we split, and when I thought it all was over... a door woke me up. How silly, I thought, it was so predictable - but still my mind has an odd way of thinking.

Why do I have to be crazy?

I pretend I don't care, but I pretend really badly.
I would like to propose we kill all those who damaged us. Who am I kidding? I'd forgive everyone in a split second. Do I cry so others know they hurt me? Do I cry because I need to? Do I cry because I'm crazy? This mess is killing me, this mess is drowning me; am I drowning myself? How do I stop this? Fuuuuck, I don't want to be here again. Could I find another shoe that fit if I needed to? Could I live barefoot forever? Everything is going to be ok, everything is going to be ok, everything is going to be ok. Nest-egg progress: 95%. Exam progress: 39%? Total progress: How the hell do I calculate that?! I hate this city, I hate the traffic, I hate the stressful speed, I hate everything. I miss having a home. I miss being really tiny and really smart and really loved. I miss not knowing the world was going to hate me since the day I put my foot outside my front door and into the evil social mess that is the world. I miss believing in myself. How did I go from "overachiever" to desperate housewife? How did I go from A+ to F-? How did I go from popular highschool girl to fat college failure? Why was I born with a "mess with me" sign on my forehead? Always scared of everyone, of everything, always on the sideline? It's going to get better, the cliché says. Is it? Ever? How? I've been here before, I know there's a light at the end of the tunnel and everything... just not a very bright light.

Tempo

Às vezes não há tempo. Não há tempo para um abraço, para um beijo, para um toque, para um olhar sequer. Às vezes não há tempo para se ser feliz. Às vezes não há tempo para se fazer alguém feliz. Às vezes há dias que não existem, nunca aconteceram, não sabemos para onde foram, escorrem pelo meio dos dedos e nem os tentamos agarrar porque não existem. São dias translúcidos, em que os pratos têm reflexos estranhos e os desenhos dos azulejos e as rachas das paredes nos entram pelos olhos dentro como se tivessem significado. Como se fossem interessantes ou de alguma forma contivessem respostas. Os azulejos de cabanas parecem-me sempre ter desenhos de patos azuis e amarelos em dias destes. O requiem do Labirinto do Fauno toca de fundo. A Sofia morreu outra vez.

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Inception

What is the most resilient parasite? Bacteria? A virus? An intestinal worm? An idea. Resilient... highly contagious. Once an idea has taken hold of the brain it's almost impossible to eradicate. An idea that is fully formed - fully understood - that sticks; right in there somewhere.


I'm going to improvise. Listen, there's something you should know about me... about inception. An idea is like a virus, resilient, highly contagious. The smallest seed of an idea can grow. It can grow to define or destroy you.