Em destaque

ashes to ashes, so it goes

I have decided to write. No calling, not this time. I haven’t really gotten to it, nothing comes to me anymore, and I think it really comes down to the lack of you. The need to go back to being my own muse, to start over, to be reborn even in my art – it’s draining, I’m too busy picking up these same broken pieces in every corner of every room. “Look alive! Put in the work!”. Leaving you took a lot out of me. Writing got demoted in my list of priorities, I suppose it was the only piece of emotion I could afford to neglect. But, once again, I’m here and the pen can’t keep up – it’s actually quite annoying. Always the writer, and, apparently, not the best muse.

Time and again, I speak about how often I die. My many deaths, my many rebirths. The light goes out, fading, slowly but surely, until all that is left is burnt down forest of what once was. There is, of course, the metaphorical horse, and I must get back on it, but first I must gain its trust, it’s a delicate process. This time is different. To be honest, it has been different for a while, maybe even a couple of years. But this time, well, to put it simply and honestly, life hasn’t just killed me, but it has also broken my heavy heart. Put a knife right through it, and I suppose I’ll tell you how it’s going.

I used to become the fire that burned me, now my steps leave a trail of ashes. As I said, I am not the girl who became that fire, and I haven’t been her for a long time. I guess you could say that life got to me. Battered me until, finally, it made me weak. There is no horse. There are only my own feet, blistered and oozing. I stitch my limbs back together, one stitch at a time, it takes ages. I step slowly, as to not fall apart all over again. I’m fine, though. I’ll be fine, definitely. Yes, surely, I’m alright. I’m fine, believe me, I’m good. I’M COMPLETELY FINE, THANKS FOR ASKING! I am trying to find that girl again.

Fairytale’s Epilogue

I remember you bursting into my life like a hurricane and quickly becoming the kind of drizzle that stays steady through the week keeping soft, sweet company. In the morning, we’d open the windows, and it would always be such a beautiful day. Cold, sunny days. My favorite kind of weather. Beautiful days during which something even better bloomed between us. I remember laughter, so much laughter. Companionship that I felt never before and never since.

I want to use this space to let the softness speak louder than the sticks and stones we found ourselves throwing the last time we spoke. It’s silly, that we let something tender end in wildfire. Though I suppose that’s the fate of most tender things, as unfortunate as that is.

June was sickeningly happy in the most tender of ways. It’s haunted me, how simply and effortlessly happy I was. It’s not a feeling that comes easy, not to me. You brought a lot of effortless joy into my life, and I’m trying, through gritted teeth, to hold onto what happened between us as a good thing, even though it didn’t work out. Because it was a good thing, while it lasted. And it wasn’t supposed to last any longer, I know that much. But the fairytale world was beautiful while we were in it. Boy, it was magnificent. And I would’ve stayed there forever if it wasn’t for reality crashing through.

It doesn’t matter that the end was bitter, the journey was sweet enough. I didn’t want it to end in the way it did. Still wish it hadn’t. I wish it had ended in well-wishes and tender goodbyes. I still feel guilty a month later, and I don’t know when the guilt’s going away. I tend to beat myself down. The last time we spoke you were a different person entirely, and that’s why I’d rather cut off my hand than reach for you again. I’ve already been in the receiving end of such callousness and suffice to say I learned not to stick around for more. You’re not who I thought you were, and I suppose that’s alright. That’s life.

And I address this to you, even though you’ll never read it. But I hope you do. I hope you know I think of you softly, and I’m sorry for the bitter parts. We’re not meant for each other, but it was beautiful while we thought we were. And maybe that’s enough.

Announcement

Every time I get the urge to write, I find myself drowning in self-doubt, in one way or another. But I must get this down on paper, I must let the ink stain the page – perhaps just a terrible way to say that my heart has been stained. Thus I must do what I do best: let the stains taint my words on the blank page before me. But before I do that, I must make this announcement – for myself than anyone else.

I’m honestly sick of bringing myself down because I should write in Portuguese instead of English if I want to make something real out of my writing, to maybe, if I get lucky enough, get something published someday. There is no “should” or “shouldn’t” when it comes to art, writing is natural, it runs in my veins, and if it comes to me in English, – which is in fact my mother tongue, as I grew up in Michigan before coming here and learning Portuguese – who am I to question it? To make it smaller to fit in a box. A box I completely made up.

So this is an announcement of sorts. I’ll be writing and posting whatever the hell I want. Stick with it or don’t. I made a self-commitment long ago that, wherever the tides take me, I’d always write for myself and not to please anybody else. So here I am, uncut, uncensored, just me. Still holding close the same wish: that by writing so intimately, someone out there will read these incredibly personal tales of my own and see themselves in it. Art can only thrive because no feeling is unique. That’s the beauty of being human.

Ando leve

Recentemente, compreendi. Carregava comigo todos os fardos – alguns meus, alguns peguei emprestado. Não sabia onde colocá-los. Para a minha surpresa, não se guarda o peso em lugar algum, se deixa ele para trás. Os deixei em seu lugar, no passado. Às vezes, olhando pra trás, ainda consigo vê-los. Não sei como fiz isso, mas está feito. O único caminho é andar adiante. Nunca andei para frente com tamanho ímpeto. Jamais achei que isso seria possível, é como se fosse uma metamorfose, mas sou mais eu do que era antes. “Nunca vi a Sabrina tão Sabrina”, disse um amigo. Também nunca me vi tão Sabrina. E sei por quê. Tive coragem. Estou acostumada a me prender ao passado, mas tenho descoberto um fascínio por viver no presente. Vejo o passado, o presente e o futuro com outros olhos, olhos novos. Abandonei os andares tortuosos que sempre descrevi. Com as mãos trêmulas, abri a porta e andei adiante – meus pés me surpreenderam em sua firmeza. Tenho descoberto que sou capaz de muito mais do que imaginava. Talvez o segredo realmente seja preencher os espaços vazios com coisas vivas. Julgava o mundo opaco, sem perceber que o brilho deve estar nos olhos. Meu sangue corre, meus pés andam e meus olhos brilham. Assim me faço eu. Renasci, mas, dessa vez, deixei muitas coisas em meu antigo corpo, pois não me pertencem mais. Cinzas sobre cinzas, como deveria ser. Guardei as garras, não me são necessárias. Elas se agarravam em cada passo, como eu esperava andar dessa forma? Agora, ando leve.

bagagem

eu as quero de volta.

todas as minhas virtudes.

todas as minhas camadas.

as palavras, o amor, a força,

a esperteza,

as garras.

fui as perdendo, uma a uma.

esvazio-me a cada fardo que carrego,

e logo,

nada de mim irá sobrar.

não sei como as ter de volta.

não sei onde colocar o peso.

alguém me diga:

onde guardar meus fardos,

desde que possa voltar para buscá-los —

por precaução,

pois são meus.

são tudo que é meu agora.

em último caso,

uso-os para me reconstruir.

embora aí esteja o perigo:

construir uma muralha

e não ter escapatória,

a não ser me torná-la.

seria esta a vida adulta?

um eterno reconstituir-se,

quando nem sabemos

se aquilo que almejamos refazer

sequer existiu.

às vezes,

o que parece sólido à alma

existe apenas no plano da alma.

intangível.

talvez seja,

talvez tenha sido,

talvez nunca foi,

talvez nunca será.

talvez minhas virtudes

e meus fardos

sejam apenas areia.

talvez sejam um mito.

talvez estejam guardados

debaixo do travesseiro.

não sei

e não me pergunte.

só lhe digo que são meus.

talvez meus fardos

sejam uma expressão azeda

do passar do tempo,

e minhas virtudes,

uma doce lembrança

do passado.

the weight of witnessing

I find myself in a once-in-a-blue-moon moment where I can clearly see my own existence as both past and future, but not present. This liminal space-time, it happens when you know something has ended, and, necessarily, something else is beginning, but you know not what, not yet. Witnessing the end, step by step, each domino in itself, somehow translates into this tragic movie that plays in my mind every time I allow it to drift too far. I will not attempt to frame this witnessing as beautiful. It’s blood and guts, stuff not everyone’s got the stomach for. It is not for the weak to love so fully and thus lose entirely. The weight of it buries me. A love that consumes you is a love that leaves you to ashes. Meanwhile, the world screams at me GET UP! GO FORTH! AIM FOR THE HEAD!

I guess I can sum it up by saying that I spent the last three years in a Smith’s song, and, dear, that double decker bus finally crashed into us. Even writing this feels strange already, as there is no us and there hasn’t been for months now, but I suppose the strangeness settles in with each goodbye. And I have the sore feeling that I’ll be writing about it often enough. It’s the only way I’ve found to put the weight down. The road ahead is adorned by ashes from a past still burning, but it is a road ahead, no less, and I walk on, as I have before. The clock’s been ticking, and it tells me the time has come.

For once, I realise that being well versed in loss isn’t just an unfortunate trait that I carry like a burden. In this space between past and future, I feel the familiarity of myself. All the past versions of myself that coexist here meet me at this crossroads, and they greet me with stern handshakes that carry a weight of responsibility. I can see now that this is why I have the stomach to feel, to be bled dry, and not trip over my own guts while doing it. I learned early-on to let the blood run its route. After all, “the only way out is through”. From a young age, I took it upon myself to go through, and I took it like an oath.

I realise now that there is no becoming who I once was. It doesn’t add up. All these versions of myself are different, I mean, sure, they’re tangled into one another by a common essence, but they are incredibly unique to the time and space they inhabit. And it is the common essence of myself that I must build on – and I can feel it again, finally. The woman I was, she isn’t fit for this role. So, this is me, stepping up. I went through and, as if that wasn’t hard enough, there’s more work to be done: leaving behind. Putting some of this weight down and walking ahead. I tend to carry all of it with me, and some of it I’ll carry ‘til I die. But I know I must move. As I witness my own return, I feel my lost strength building itself up again.

Give me a gun and throw me in the trenches, folks. I know my way around.

add title

Everything about me screams weakness. How did I get here and how do I go back? And back to where? Back to when? I don’t even know what I’m asking for, always stuck in this mental shrine of what I (supposedly) once was. Don’t trust memories, folks. They lie. Or people. They lie even more. Or anything, really. If I were you, I’d just self-isolate until the scary world out there magically gets better. Don’t trust me either (I don’t).

I rot in this room and I let all the things I value rot alongside me. I don’t write and I don’t sing and, god help me, I don’t talk to my friends either. I could attribute this to my mental state and call it a day, but I know better, and by that I mean that I’m no saint, so save your prayers. 

today, nov. 24th

FRIDAY, 16:21 – “I can’t keep going back and forth forever between grief and high delight” the quote came to mind when I grabbed my journal. I think it’s from Franny and Zooey. I went to the psychiatrist. What’s off about me has always been off, it all makes sense. I felt hopeful after, however sorrow made its way back to me, it always does. The old lady. “She comes from somewhere”, tattooed on my thigh, is but a euphemism for the harsh truth, it comes from me. I am my own beginning and that burden is mine to carry. My writing resides between me and the end. All of my endings, and they are so, so many. I try to begin again all of the time. My many and never-ending attempts at living. I rise and rise but I end and end. I am a hamster in a wheel, watching a projection of life before me. I try to grab it, it slips away.
I’m falling behind again. I’m all wrong and I don’t know how to go about it. The waves overcome me. I drown every time. I’ve got so much fight in me, but what is it worth? I know life will come again but the fight is gruesome, the wait feels wretched. The bitterness of looking so serene while gasping for air. My cries for help. I don’t think it’s possible not to feel alone, desperately so, in this tiresome state of mind. My own company is the only kind capable of filling the gap, and I can’t count on it. Mondays I come alive, liveliness becomes me, you should see it, but I hardly write when I’m busy with life. Thursdays I am fading, disappearing becomes me. Today is friday, I am nowhere to be found.

oct. 12th

I’m watching life in stop motion, I don’t know what it means though. Not everything needs carving to its bare meaning, but life and words plead at me to be dissected. I tried not to give in and failed. Something changed or broke, maybe derailed, when I got here, but something tells me it was already broken, masked by everyday life. I see myself fading in retrospect. I watch her disappear, without fear. Exhaustion settles me.
I only feel out of place because I watch them feel. Agitated, movement comes naturally for them, no need to tear themselves from every chair in every corner. It feels better though, sitting here with my journal and my pen, watching liveliness like a bird, flying all around me. The writer, the ghost, it’s better than the nothingness I settle for whilst sinking in the bed. At least, this way, I can feel myself within me, keeping me company. There’s something homely in disappearing, for me. I wish I could talk and laugh, and hand out ideas like gestures to the living. I’m being what I can.

little old self-fulfilling prophecy me

I’ve got a lot of questions, but I never ask any of them. I couldn’t tell you if you asked me why I read tarot for other people but never for myself, though I pretend to have the answer, hiding beneath my tongue, just between me and myself, but there’s nothing there. I’ve been wondering a lot if everyone feels as much like an idiot as I do. When push comes to shove, I don’t know anything at all. Have I myself become distorted by the subjectivity of reality? Who am I to naked eyes? If what I see isn’t what I know, and, instead, what I know is what I see, my perceptions nothing but a fragment of myself, how can I ever see anything differently? Am I just floating in this river, or am I swimming?

I often feel like I’m only attached to reality by a single strand of hair. If only I’d use a bit of force, I’d float away, like I do in my dreams. Sounds like a nice dream, doesn’t it? It’s not, it’s quite awful. Can’t control it or go back down, in a minute I’m floating over my house, like a puppet, watching life from afar, terrified. And I mean, of course that’s how the dream goes. Am I this way by design? Am I predictable in my bones or is it simply a trap I designed too long ago to remember? A mechanism to keep myself at bay. The more I get to know myself, the more obvious it gets that I’m a fucking bore. When my ghosts catch up to me, they go “ugh. her, again?”. It’s getting so old I swear I can feel myself gently fade in perspective. Is it this hard for everybody? To exist and feel? If not, can I get a re-do? Is it too late to disappear?

Or have I done that already? I’m not quite sure. Every self is so far away from the other. I’m aware that I must take things as they are and that I have much work to do. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take the chance to be something else. I don’t know, I wish I was something. I don’t hate her, I would just like her to be some other way rather than the way she is. Looking at her gets more and more sour by the day. She feels like a waste of time and yet all the time I have is hers.

Just the fact that I’m writing about wanting to disappear or be something else instead of about myself tells you enough about how predictable I am. God I wish someone would sedate me so I could shut up for a few months.