golden summer (in November)

And when you land in gorgeous places like this, glorious and majestic despite constant economical struggles and questionable justice, you are left wondering...

don´t we just worry way too much for petty things? 

misled

You think that comparing a meaningless picture to an Edward Hopper painting is a good enough sign of a common ground. 

You astound when he asks you where Cheryl´s book is and you end up exchanging your favorite literature one night before falling asleep, because you think it´s a sign of a common soul.

You smile when he says he wants to go to the Philharmonic before leaving, because it´s a sign of a common sensitivity.

You hope that those hands holding you back each time you say you had enough are a sign of a common heart.

  

You are wrong. 

   

Campodistelle

 

111 km. By car a trifle. On foot an experience.
I knew - I felt - it was going to be an adventure which would reward me of every bit of physical endeavour, I only ignored how. Now I know. 

The prize is a lightness of the heart, many, many, many sweet memories, a kick of self-confidence and a few dried-out blisters I show off with pride.

The pleasure is singing Bob Dylan aloud to the clouds of a Spanish sky with no one around, smiling your biggest smile, because, finally, you know that everything is ok.   

The enrichment is two amazing women and two great men who made me laugh to tears and believe again in the easiness of encounter and the pleasure of sharing, even if it´s only a few steps and a few days. Or a tight, infinite hug in a cathedral.  

The lesson is that happiness is within yourself, when you do what makes you happy, when you open up to the others, when you trust yourself to walk on a common ground, when you build a common ground, when you remind yourself that there is no point in fearing or eschewing the others because they have the same fears, the same hurt, the same uncertainties as you.

The value is humanity, beauty, nature, mysticism and inspiration. All for us. 

 

 

 

one for the love, one for the faith

I saw your roommate tonight, I met him at a party where his solitude was looking for a companion. Like all our solitudes are. I saw your roommate, tonight, and my heart started pounding because immediately he dragged me to you, into your small messy room where, right now, you are sleeping in your broken bed, your daughter resting next to you on the mattress on the floor.  

There is no roommate without your shadow sticking on his back. There is no roommate saying that he knows what I am going through without you looking over his shoulder as a sneering ghost. There is only a tall blond German-Brazilian who unintentionally brings me back exactly to where I painfully walked away from, with a burden of sadness I am carrying with me every day. He brings me back to my lake of illusions and fake recollections, my infidel memories of you, where you were sensitive, difficult for sure, but where you cared for me. Yet that lake did not make it. It dried up, became an arid, sterile bed in which water and life have been cruelly burned by a merciless, careless sun.

There was never a you who loved me.

There was never a you who wanted to overcome the issues in your  life.
There was never a you who cared enough.

There was never a you who wanted to be with me, for real.

This is the icy river in which I had to swim, hard, fast, with all my left energy, as not to drown.

My river of delusion, bitter truth, badly put trust.

I wish I could see you again with my indulgent eyes, but you proved me too well how wrong I was.

I saw your roommate tonight and it made me shed two long, heavy tears, not one more.

One for the immense love I had for you which you murdered. 
One for my faith.    

sense and sensitivity

Today, while I was scrubbing my bathtub with some chemical detergent, leftover of somebody who gravitated around this house in the past, I was thinking about my ex (yes, it was the bathtub, not the toilet, really) and how he would be silently disappointed about seeing me holding a non-biodegradable plastic bottle in my hand of non-organic and non-plant-compatible detergent. He would probably imperceptibly toss his head thinking of how little sustaibable, how damaging, how future-erasing it was. All in my hand. So I drawned into the recollection of how totally in love with this planet, he was. And how so very incapable of being in love with its inhabitants.

Between a scrub and another, I asked myself if one can be sensitive and selfish at the same time. Because it seems like a paradox to me, and yet, the more I think about it, the more I can spot quite a few "SSs" that I know: the Selective Sensitives. Open, attentive and nurturing at the ringing of their own chosen bells. Deaf, blind, motionless otherwise. 

 

29.10.2010 it was all there

There are things that one would think need not be said, not because they are useless, but because they are – or should – be known, be felt.

There are many things that I don’t bother saying, because I think I’d be misunderstood, pleonastic, pathetic. Pitied.

There are things that cannot be said, because they necessarily shatter against the surface of reality and the collision’s fragments are thrown back at your face and you have to be quick to shun them.

Fact is that communication is a state of art, a daily and underestimated challenge. The most fascinating one, for me.

Fact is that adults lose their ability to speak out the truth of their thoughts, they stop talking, understanding, they hide themselves behind habits and they become grey.

Fact is that I might be misunderstood, pleonastic, pathetic and that I am in fact afraid of being pitied by you, but when I feel, I have to share. And I am thankful I still have the courage to do it, after all.