Love Quote of the Day

I have added to this blog some 'quote of the day'.

Today's love quote of the day is

Who so loves believes the impossible
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Thank God someone feels what I feel.

Long ago have I stopped trying to make sense.

I love you.

I believe we can be together.

I need to believe we will be together.

Am I believing the impossible?

Am I hoping the impossible?

Am I wishing something I will never have?

Perhaps.

But I'm allowed today.

Because today,

'Who so loves believes the impossible.'

I love you.

What may come to us today as impossible.

May come to us tomorrow as possible.

And on the day after as something we will ever be grateful for.

Do you know?

I will love you still tomorrow.

And more than I do today.

Impossible is nothing.

Believing is everything.

And I know I will be dreaming of you.

So see you in a bit.

The Rest of the World

So I’ve started reading other blogs. I thought maybe the rest of the world might have a word to share, and that maybe I would like to hear it. I think for too ling now I have been isolated from the world. I may live in another world, but I still have a word to say in this one, any more to listen to.

I haven’t really read any blog to be honest. But I have bookmarked some I found interested at first glimpse, to read later, on life, not today.

Instead, page elements caught my eye as I was going through blogs. This may be a blog I’m writing to you. But I may not always be in the mood for writing, and to adorn the blog is a good time spending. Not that I have any spare time. I just don’t feel like doing anything else but to be close to you, and so I come to my little hiding place, the little dreaming and longing place, the place I’m building so I can always have you with me, in my memory, even after my memory is gone.

I began looking for good ideas to further improve our space. Although this is for you, I thought maybe there would also be some room for me. After all, there are so many things I feel you don’t know about me, so many things I would like to share. And so many things about you I would like to know and may never get to.

And so I have found a blog and loved this idea. In the section ‘About me’ there was ‘100 things’ and ’40 questions’. I started writing the 100 things and it turned out to be 100 things, almost all about my love life. I have no idea why it ended up there, but it did. I called it bullet pointing my (love) live instead, and thought maybe I would have it as a regular post. I don’t know, haven’t decided yet. I then started to write another one, again for 1. or maybe from 3. or 4. or 9., I don’t know, but I think I haven’t finished. The one I ended up naming bullet pointing my life, also stopped being a numeration when I got to you… It’s too hard for me to write simple statements. Maybe because all this is yet very recent (depending on the perspectives), I always end up writing to you or about you, even when I’m suppose to be writing about me, about you I am.

I don’t see myself as a self without you with me, and so I can’t say anything about me excluding you. Somehow, the meaning of my life started being you. You don’t want to be part of this anymore, and I… I am so f***ing stupid I keep on putting me down, missing you, dreaming of the day I will see you. When? WHEN???

Time.

Imagine there was a section in blogs asking to characterise using, let’s say, 3 words. 3 words that could define the blog, the 3 most used words. No, let’s have 5, your favourite number. For this blog I think they would be:

1. Missing / Longing

2. Time

3. Stupid

4. Stupid

5. Girl

The problem with reading other blogs may be for me to found I’m not doing anything special. That there are millions, billions, trillions of other people able to do just the same, or much much better. And actually doing it.

What can I do? I will keep on doing my best. It won’t be easy. It’s never easy. But to write for an audience of one, when that one is not there to listen, is even harder I think.

Not an excuse. No, not an excuse. By best is what you will have. Nothing less. I own that to you, to me, and to our love, that was once so beautiful. At least as I see it.

When you love someone you should say it.

Will the consequences be what you want and expect? That’s a completely different thing. And not for you to decide.

No one should be put apart or mistreated for loving. For loving so sincerely, so deeply, so truly.

‘We should be friends for as long as you wish’, you said. Why have you then stopped speaking to me, answering my calls, returning my emails? As far as I’m concerned, I still wish us to be friends. Much more than friends, as it happens, but we can’t always have what we want.

Let me give you some beautiful words, wrote by someone who can write, and let us go to bed. Not together, unfortunately.

There are many many crazy things
That will keep me loving you
And with your permission
May I list a few

The way you wear your hat
The way you sip your tea
The memory of all that
No they can’t take that away from me

The way your smile just beams
The way you sing off key
The way you haunt my dreams
No they can’t take that away from me

We may never never meet again, on that bumpy road to love
But I’ll always, always keep the memory of

The way you hold your knife
The way we danced till three
The way you changed my life
No they can’t take that away from me

There are a few lines that don’t go well.
You don’t use hats anymore, out of fashion.
The smiling, singing of key (haha), haunting my dreams, that’s perfect.
The knife, I don’t get it. Maybe it’s just to rime with life. The way you hold your knife? For what? I hope only to cook. I used to love when you cooked for me. I used to love to cook with you. And most of all, I used to love to cook for you. I would wish you would have to work late, at home, just so that I could cook for you and bring you the food. I wish you would sometimes be working late, so that I could bring you tea and cookies, and went to bed waiting for you to hug me so that I could fall asleep. Of course I don’t wish you to be busy so that you have to be working late. It’s just that you were busy, but I never got to bring you tea and cookies and going to bed waiting for you. You would either don’t do the work, or we wouldn’t sleep together.

We never danced either. You know I can’t dance in public? I love music, and I love to dance, when I’m alone in my room, alone in the house. I never go out much to dance. I’m so shy, I don’t move. I remember being able to dance three times in public. All the other times (not many), I just stood. I wonder how you it be to dance with you. I wonder if you know how to dance. I wonder how we would dance together. I wouldn’t be shy dancing with you, I think. I wouldn’t be thinking of anything else beside how to manage not to crash your feet. I would love to dance with you. To have danced. I would love to have that memory.

The way you changed my life needs no comments. You did really changed a lot in me, in my life. I thought I would never love again. I thought if I tried, I could be with someone else, with a guy. In my former relationship I never felt bad or concerned for loving a woman, for having a relationship with a woman. But with you I felt different. Maybe because we are almost the same age, what isn’t the case with my first girlfriend. Maybe because we would naturally hold my hand or hug me when walking in the street. Maybe because you would introduce me as your girlfriend. Simple things I never had, simple things I was never allowed to do. I’m not saying I love you more. I’m not saying I love you less. I can’t compare. Things are different. I was different. The world around was different.

It is true I wanted things to work out after a long time she broke up with me. It is true I thought I was done with love. It is possible true that I was a kid and a full. I was completely restored when I met you. I was completely ready to love you.

Maybe it was because I found you knowing I wouldn’t have you for long.
Maybe it was because I wanted to overcome all the distance in the world.
Maybe it was because I believed I could change your mind if only I could make you see that my love was the purest and sincerest of all.
Maybe it was because I hoped you would dare to try with me.
Maybe it was because I lost so before the time I should have.

Whatever the reasons, ‘the way your smile just beams, the way you sing off key, the way you haunt my dreams’ no one can’t away from me.

The way you kissed me, and hold me in your arms, I may never be blessed again to feel.

And that I will me missing.

Today.

Tomorrow.

Ever.

And for ever.

Time.

All in time.

All in it’s time.

All the time.

You, My She

This song I simply adore.

Was I a songwriter and this would most definitely be one I would want to know as mine. This would be my song to you. Written to you, and you alone. I would then be sure you would be forever remembered as the girl about whom one of the most beautiful songs ever was written.


Written by Charles Aznavour and Herbert Kretzmer

She may be the face I can’t forget
The trace of pleasure or regret
Maybe my treasure or the price I have to pay
She may be the song that summer brings
May be the chill that autumn brings
May be a hundred different things
Within the measure of a day

She may be the beauty or the beast
May be the famine or the feast
May turn each day into a Heaven or a Hell
She may the mirror of my dreams
A smile reflected in a stream
She may not be what she may seem
Inside her shell…

She, who always seems so happy in a crowd
Whose eyes can be so private and so proud
No one’s allowed to see them when they cry
She maybe the love that cannot hope to last
May come to me from shadows in the past
That I remember ‘till the day I die

She may be the reason I survive
The why and wherefore I’m alive
The one I care for through the rough and ready years

Me, I’ll take the laughter and the her tears
And make them all my souvenirs
For where she goes I’ve got to be
The meaning of my life is
She…She
Oh, she…

There are more. Many more. Or maybe not so many. As the number increases, the charm starts to be lost.

But at east 3 others I’m thinking of need to be mentioned, for they have a word to say un this story.

Others may have beautiful words. Words I would like to be able to choose and say to you. Words I would like you to hear from my mouth, from my heart. These beautiful words may come from songs I like, and from songs I don’t like so much. I will say them to you as they come along. Good fitting words are always pleasant to hear.

This particular song is not part of the story, but it’s perfect to you. Was I eloquent gifted person, and these would be the words I would say and sing. To you, my life.

And the song is so beautiful that it is never too much to hear it again. And again. And again.

But Not Today, Not Today

I opened the document where I wrote ‘Unspoken Words’. I said I would publish those words here. I have decided to do so. But now, reading those words I wrote a few months ago, when we were closer, when your memory was clearer to me, something made me hesitate.

Are those words more important than the ones I now write? I don’t think so. Maybe it is just that these I am writing to you. You wouldn’t possible know, but you can open this page and read all these words I am writing. Those words weren’t written to be read. If to be read, it should be as a whole, as a story, a complete one. As a book, I would wish. Always time is not enough, and then the time to write passes.

I wanted to write a book to you when I first started writing ‘Unspoken Words’. I then wanted to write another book to you. I said it to you in one of the emails I wrote, and I’m almost sure you haven’t read. Anyway, that’s maybe a story for another day. How I have decided to write this blog. Or better, not how have I decided to write, just how the name was chosen.

The thing now is: should or should I not publish ‘Unspoken Words’?

Somehow, for being older, they seem to me more private. They seem almost like a treasure box I’m not yet ready to open.

If I doubt it’s because I’m not sure.

If I’m not sure then I shouldn’t do it.

And so I won't.

Maybe is just the mood I’m in today.

Perhaps in another day.

Time.

Always time.

The one that keeps running and that I can’t keep with.

The one that is taking you further and further from me as your memory vanishes lost in the impossible crosses of my memory.

The one I wish I could stop.

Lie.

The one I wish I could turn back.

And then stop.

There.

And then.

Stop just there.

Stop just then.

And I can assure you, I would gladly live my entire life forever in that moment.

Get bored?

Of you?

Impossible.

Nothing is impossible.

Except the things that are.

What is impossible?

Time.

Always time.

Impossible to make it tick backwards.

I wish.

I had.

Time.

What I do have.

Is time.

To keep on hoping.

Because even when all hope is lost.

Something happens.

And we hope again.

Today I believe it is possible.

Today I remembered a picture I once took.

Today I remembered a clock ticking backwards.

Today I hold to wishing.

I know I should never give up on you, on us.

I know I should never let us be forgoten.

I know I can turn time in my favour.

Even if it goes on runing against me for a long time.

There will be a time when it will be runing side by side with me.

In that day I will kiss you for eternity.

Until then.

Time.

Always time.

For better and for worse.

Time.

For skiness and for health.

Time.

For loving and for longing.

Time.

For wishing and for hoping.

Time.

For dreaming and for believing.

Time.

For you.

All the time in the world.

For life to brings us together.

Time.

Always time.



ps. This is a picture I once took at a restaurant. It’s a real clock and it real works. It really ticks backwards. I found it amazing. I loved that clock. And it’s so subtle people can go without noticing that in that restaurant time is ticking back!

Heart Tricks

I can’t sleep. I have started writing and now I can’t stop. I need to sleep. I’m exhausted. I have a pen in my hand, a piece of paper lies on the desk. It’s 5am. Don’t believe the date or the time it shows on the blog. I often don’t publish things when I write them. It may go from seconds, to minutes, to hours, to days, maybe to weeks, before publishing. And I will try not to publish more than once a day. My writing is consuming more than the time I can spare.

It’s 5am. It doesn’t matter the day. Days are all the same. Only the hours matter. Because there are hours to be awake and hours to be asleep. Something to do with the Sun and the society we are expected to live in. All day I want to lie down in bed and sleep. All night I’m incessantly haunted by words.

It’s 5am. The computer is ‘off’. I went to bed around midnight. I went through some kind of trance I can’t call sleeping. The computer has been ‘on’ a few hours ago and is now ‘off’ again. I have written I don’t know how many words today, or for how long. They trouble me and I can’t sleep. I am forced to get up, to turn the light on, to grab my pen and let it take its ways along the lines.

I have all my life in front of me. I have years and years ahead to write to you. Why then this craziness? As if the world would finish tomorrow and words would be left unsaid. There will be a time, I’m sure, when I won’t be like this, when I will be wishing to have some words to write to you, something to say, something to tell.

It is a worry that all I propose to write can be forever forgotten inside of me, lost in the labyrinth of my mind. Could this be the why of all this craziness? I don’t know. I can’t think anymore. My pen is moving my hand, not the other way around. My pen is moving my hand, and my brain has nothing to do with the process. It must be my heart then. My heart should be missing you too much now. There will be times it won’t be able to remember you. Mind trick, you see. The mind is independent from the body, and so it is also from any organ. Even from the one that rules the whole thing, even from the one the mind needs to survive.

Today, my heart is screaming aloud that there are no such independencies, as the mind is often mistakenly left to assume. A heart bears everything, and quiet let itself be mistreated. But be aware of a broken heart. It is blind and nothing equals its strength.

Heart tricks, you see. The strongest of all the body tricks. Impossible to control or to calm. An unleashed heart is the worse nightmare. The heart simply won’t go back into its cage. Your chest simple won’t contain it. And I go on and on without a good night sleep.

Heart tricks, you see. Be aware.

Last Tears

The new Indigo Girls' video 'Last Tears'

A song I can't sing just yet.

I still cry sometimes.

I like the song, though.

And the video.

Here it is for you.

Never Enough

'Dreaming Nudes' by Alfred Gockel

I write too much for a blog. Or so I think. What is to write too much? Have I said all the things I want to tell you? Am I ready to put my pen down and don’t say another word to you, not ever again? No, I’m not. So I haven’t said too much. I haven’t said enough. It will never be enough. Not all my words can be enough.

I may say the wrong thing. I may say something you don’t want to hear. You may ask me not to say it again, not to say it anymore. But what can I do? You are also responsible for this. You also made me love. I didn’t love you alone. You were part of this once. What have since changed? For you it seems simple, you have mentioned your reasons more than once. Not so simple for me, I’m afraid. I like to see myself as a simple person, but maybe I’m a very complex one, very complicated. But I’m not simple, just practical. Practical and complex. Is that possible? I am what I am.

So what have changed, then? For me. Everything and nothing. Everything when I remember we are not together, and that I can’t touch you, hug you, kiss you, or even call you. Even emailing you seems more and more absurd, as you go not answering. I said today, ‘I sent another email. I simple can’t be silent and quiet.’ The answer was, ‘are you waiting for an answer?’ ‘No.’ ‘So, why do you write? We write to get an answer.’ ‘I don’t know, so she can know I’m still alive.’ No, it wasn’t something so melodramatic. It must have been something closer to ‘so to say what’s happening... Nothing when I can still feel you perfume embracing me, your voice comforting me, your touch making me knees shake.

The truth is that I always hope for an answer. Even here, I wonder if some day I will have a word back from you.

But am I writing too much? Sometimes I am afraid I will run out of words, that I wouldn’t know what to say to you. It’s seems I’m almost writing an entire chapter of a book. And finished the chapter, what would happen? Will I be able to keep on going? What is the point of all this? What’s the point of yelling when there is no one to come and rescue us? When there is no one to listen? When no one cares? So I won’t be mad. I am writing for an audience of one, but that one has left. I am speaking alone. I know there is no one listening, and yet I keep on doing it. We see a person talking to himself on the street and we take him for a mad one. How am I different from the person who walks gesturing and speaking aloud and to anyone else but himself?

We are exactly the same. Except that I don’t even have anyone to tease me. That I don’t even have a voice, also. My words are silent words. My words will never be heard. I may die tomorrow and you wouldn’t know I’ve died loving you, and missing the sound of your voice.

I’m a scientist. I have an obsession for explaining things. Is this a cause or a consequence? Being a scientist. Or having an obsession for explaining.

What I write in excess, I speak in scarcity. Maybe I will worry and try to be briefer next time. And in compensation, I will try to make my day-to-day speech more affluent by adding a word or two into the conversation.

I also have an obsession for perfection. Have you ever noticed? I’m a scientist. Is this a cause? Is it a consequence? Nothing to do probably.

"If I did not die, ever! And eternally sought and achieved the perfection of things!"

Maybe there isn’t such a thing as a perfect thing.

What is perfection?

For me.

The way your smile fulfils my heart.

Isn’t that perfection?

It is all I seem to need in life.

If that isn’t perfection, I may as well die tomorrow.

Or go to bed now, close my eyes, and have you kiss me goodnight and hug me to sleep.

Expression Demanded

Why won’t you simply quit?

"Love demands expression. It will not stay still, stay silent, be good, be modest, be seen and not heard, no. It will break out in tongues of praise, the high not that smashes the glass and spills the liquid."

You should know better than me why is it I haven’t give up on you yet. Or is it on me??? After all it is your favourite book I’m quoting. The one you gave me, remember?

‘Sweet words (…), it will melt your little heart’, you said. Yes, I loved every word in the book. I was reading it and it was your voice I was listening to telling me those words. I was reading it and it were your hands I felt reading my body.

Give me a sign. I’m trying very hard on you. Or is it on me??? Give me the smallest of nods. I don’t want to let it go just yet. How will I know you gave me a nod if I can’t see you? I will. I will know. I will feel it. Or at least I will be waiting for it, and keep on writing until.

There’s a song that goes…

Your smile is the warning I need from you to live.

And you have the most beautiful of smiles. You have the smile that lights my heart. Your smile always makes me smile. I’m smiling now. I have your picture at my desk, in front of me. You are smiling. Always. And I’m smiling as well. I can never get tired of looking at you.

Can you feel me when I look at your picture, and smile to you?

Does my smile reach you through wind or thoughts?

Do you ever remember me?

Do you ever think of me?

Do you ever remember us?

How beautiful we were?

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever wish?

Do you ever hope?

Do you ever believe?

Do you ever miss me?

Do you ever miss the smile you said you would miss?

My smile.

I miss yours.

And all the rest of you.

And I do wish, hope and believe.

For how long?

Time.

What is time when you are not here with me?

What is time when I am not in your arms?

What was time when I was?

What will time be would I ever again.

Be.

In your arms.

In your smile.

Old Words part 2

… And then take you to a place I could reach you!

Old Words

Let me go back in time. Not far. A little. Just enough.
I have decided to include here texts I wrote some time ago. Yes, to you. Who else? Words you never got, because I never sent.

A collection of texts, they are. ‘Unspoken Words’, I called it. Even then you didn’t want my words. You said it didn’t help to imagine us together. But my imagination is all I have left to bear life. It’s because I have you in my dreams all night that I dare get out of bed and face the day, and face all the light for what I have no protection. I have sensible eyes. I’m almost blind during the day. But at night, I can see clearly, and what I see is you. You, and you alone.

Holding your hand I travel. To you, with you, but never from you. In my dreams, I do. I’m never still dreaming when I wake up, and so we never say goodbye. There is no need. I never said goodbye. I thought that was no need. I thought I was going to see you soon after. I didn’t. Should I start saying goodbye in my dreams? To dream, I can always, can’t I? And I still hope I will see you. One day. Some day. Hopefully, not a very distant one. Until then, I’m glad I still have you in my dreams.

A collection of texts I called ‘Unspoken Words’. They include:

‘Unspoken Words’ (goes as an introduction)
‘Silence’
‘Words’
‘Obrigada Querida’
‘Your Room’

Then I have an incomplete draft, and a few more titles with a few words. My thoughts come to me in such a disorganised way, that I can’t even right a passage at a time. I write more than one, parallel thoughts all coming from the same place.

How can they be parallel and come from the same place? Parallel lines don’t touch. Not at the end, and certainly not at the beginning. Or maybe they do. In me, at least. Else, what would I call them? How would I classify them? Is it so important to classify, to label? I don’t think so. But we have to name things, to classify them, to group them, so we can explain what it is we are referring to. Well, they do come from the same place, from the same exact point. They have the same source, so to say. And as they go, they always have the same distance between. They don’t get closer nor nearer. They continue side by side. When was that they distanced from one another so to go side by side? And when was it that they have stopped moving away from each other? I am confused. What did I expect, trying to explain how my thoughts travel in my neurons?

They come from the same point. There is space between them. They did never go apart, they did never stopping going apart so that they could travel side by side. Maybe they are layers. No. That would imply to have some at the surface and some bellow. No. They are equal. Call them parallel, call them whatever, or don’t call them at all. This is the way the travel, in my mind. Is it not possible? It is in my universe.

Maybe one day I will finish these pieces of story, bring a meaning to these titles. Maybe I won’t. It won’t be the same. The time has passed, and so maybe I shouldn’t. Perhaps I will write something completely different starting from the words I then wrote.

Until then, I’m glad I still have you in my dreams.

Do you know what would I like to do? I would like to take you out of my dreams. Yes, to take you out of my dreams! …

Mind the Gap

‘Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.’

Why this fear for the gap?

On the train are those coming or leaving. The ones moving. The ones looking, perhaps not even knowing for what.

On the platform are those who stand and wait. They wait for someone, or perhaps for their own self to arrive, have they lost in the journey.

Maybe on the next train.

Or on the one following.

Or perhaps are they waiting for the right train to catch. How will they recognise it, I wouldn’t know. I don’t know myself. Does anyone? Do you? How long have they stood there? How long should we wait?

Yes, there are advertisements, but of what use are they? They would only be useful would I know where should I be travelling to. The problem isn’t so much the place’s name, or how would I call it. The problem is the lack of drawn maps to walk around and find ways in my labyrinth. Not even the tourist points can be so easily found, whatever they are.

But what about in between? That place where virtue lies? The gap, that word that flashes our mind to a dark place. What is there? Only one thing. The unknown.

I don’t want to stand and wait for the next train. I always catch one. Even if the wrong, just to find where is it going. But I don’t want to catch the train either. It may take me further, instead of closer to you. Where are you, anyway?

I chose to stay in the gap. I chose the unknown.
You may say a gap is nothing but a dark place. And when we think dark, we automatically think empty. It is dark. It is empty. A dark, empty place it is. I have absolutely no idea what will I find there. Why to risk then, rather than going for something safe?

It is in the darkness, in the emptiness, in the unknown that all things are possible. You need just dare imagine them. And decide how you will live the life you dared imagining.

What about the body? Screw the body, this body can’t reach you, can’t touch you, can’t feel you, can’t have you. Only the mind does not respond to gravity.

Look, there’s a train approaching. Can you hear?

‘Please mind the gap.’

Listen again.

‘Please mind the gap.’

Listen again. Pay attention.

‘Please mind the gap.’

No. No. No.
Close your eyes and abandon your thoughts, vanish your body, blow your mind to the wind. Forget all you have learnt as you. What can you see?

Nothing.

Is it dark?

Yes.

Is it empty?

It is.

Is it the unknown?

Yes.

Would you say it to be an impossible labyrinth?

I believe I would, yes.

Can you hear it now? Focus!

Only a whisper, a distant murmur.

Saying?

‘Please, mind IN the gap.’

Well done. Is it frightening?

Lost in Translation

Ancient Languages, W. Logan Fry, 1989


What made me change my mind?
Hard to tell. Perhaps the fact that before I didn’t have this silence, this distance that turns my life meaningless. I could speak. I could tell what I felt. And the writing was then merely to decrease my pain, my necessity of letting all those feelings abandon me.

Now I can’t speak. I still write to you, although you have lost your faith in me, although I have lost all meaning to you. Most of the times, what I write, I delete as soon as I finish. Sometimes I gather the courage (or the silliness) to send you those unwanted words. I know you don’t read them. I know if you did, it will only make you angrier and less willing to answer back. Or at least so I think. How can I ever be sure, if I hear no words in return?

But what can I do? I honestly don’t know. I have too many feelings inside and I am not so strong as to drown them. I can’t speak them. I then need writing them. Such words I have written all over. I thought a blog would be a good way of organising. Not my thoughts anyway. That would be too much to ask.

I still have the notebook I wrote, not to you, you know to whom. And I still have all I have written to you before. Does the blog mean I will email you less often? Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. Would it make a difference? To you, I mean. For I am writing anyway. And to you. But will it be the same, you not receiving my words? You probably wouldn’t read them anyway. How will I ever know?

I have then decided for a diary, a weekly, a monthly, a yearly. A journey..ry.
And it seems to make no sense in writing it in a different language. Either you wouldn’t understand, or I wouldn’t be able to write it.
It is true that my ability to express in this language is not the best possible either. But it never mattered when we were together, did it? Our senses and bodies always found their ways to understand and to be understood. Our bodies are fluent in a language none of us can speak.

For we may be fluent, we may speak a language as though we haven’t been thought any other. But to translate something, to translate and keep the meaning as itself, we can never do. The translation is never good enough. The translated word is never so strong, so full of passion, full of pain, full of meaning, full of… full. We, or at least I, can never manage finding the appropriate word. Specially when translating a feeling. Not one that suits me, anyway. It is as though I can only express in the language I’m feeling in. Maybe the thing is we can only feel in our ancestors’ language. Maybe our brain is able to learn foreign languages, but not our heart.

Lets just hope all this writing will diminish my pain, and that when I write to you directly, or speak to you (may God wish), I would be happier and less despaired.

My ambition is to write a story. Yes, to write to a story is an ambition.


Anyone can write, you may say.

True.

Anyone can tell a story.

True.

Anyone can keep a blog.

True.

Everyone loves.

True.

Everyone suffers from love.

True.

It is not more painfully to you than it is to anyone else.

True.

Everybody moves on, forgets, finds other loves; why don’t you? Why are you so stubborn?

Why don’t I? Why am I so stubborn? Hah.
Is it not enough to tell you that I love you?

No.

Is it not enough to say I will gladly have all this suffering would it mean your smile would never leave me?

But you can’t even see my smile…

Oh, but I, I do!
And I can hear your laugh too, and look into your eyes, and hug you, and kiss you. Today. Always. For ever.

You are crazy!

Aren’t we all?


My ambition is to write a story. Yes, to write a story is my ambition.
Is it a love story? Well, it has love in it. Is it a story like any other? Perhaps. Probably. What makes it worthwhile is that this story was never told before. A different story, it will be. Will it be my story? Your story? I don’t know. Our story, perhaps. For I can’t distinguish anymore what is mine in you, what is yours in me, what is the two of us together, the two of us apart, none of us.

And what about the language problem?
This won’t be a problem, not to you and not to me. The least of my concerns. Because I have always had feelings for you in this foreign language I speak so poorly. We have never spoke another. With time, the strength of my love for you is making me more and more fluent. And after all, this is the international language. Although not the one my heart longs to learn. But again, that is another story. I am learning to take a step at a time.

As a baby, I stand to stumble for the first time.

The Beginning

It all starts today, the 11th of May 2007.

Why today? What makes today so special?

Nothing, really! It is just another day, as yesterday, as tomorrow. It starts today as it could start any other day.

But it does start today. Today I felt like writing. I feel like writing most of the days, to be quite honest. And it doesn’t really matter how it starts, anyway.

What does matter is how it goes. And maybe I should say how it ends, or will end. Or maybe I shouldn’t. This is a journey, not a mean to achieve this ending or that ending. I want to enjoy the path, for I know I will be wanting to leave and start another one as soon as I get to something that might be called an end.

Some time ago, a long time ago or yesterday, depending on the perspective, I had recently split from a long-term relationship (again, depending on the perspective) and was heartbroken to the point of believing with all my strengths that I could never again love another person. Or maybe I was wrong. You, and you alone, proved me wrong. I wish you would keep on proving me wrong for as long as I should live. But we haven’t reached there yet. We are still at the beginning.

And this was how it began.
I was, as I told you, and as I am, but now for a different person (which is you by the way), heartbroken. I was, as I am, lost! How many meanings does this word was? It doesn’t matter; all the possibilities will most definitely suit me. And so in the middle of all those tears, that pain, that despair (that has been so strong and now seems to be so distant, so far away from the place my feelings come from, so remote in what I call my own life and own self), I found comfort on writing. Knowing this, a friend asked me why wouldn’t I write a blog?

I didn’t want to write one. Not before today, anyway. Maybe it wasn’t the time just then. Maybe I wasn’t ready. Or maybe I just didn’t want to write one because, period. But I did as my friend recommended and went to look for some blogs. One of them caught my. That one I read (I can’t recall for how long) and posted a comment. Was I making a comment to a specific post or to the blog in general, I don’t quite know. To the blog it was, I believe. I will do by best to translate what was then said.

Blog’s name: A infinita ausência
‘The infinite absence’ seems to be a fair translation.

Post’s date: 29th June 2005
Comment’s date: unspecified
Comment’s time: 12.05pm

And so it went…

‘Hi,
When I saw myself in a state quite similar to yours, the only thing appearing to have some meaning to me was to write, to scream to the wind and to the sea till the end of my strength.
When it was heard that I writing to the one I loved, I was told about the blogs and suggested to write one.
I saw the name of your blog, its address, and I opened it.
It was the only blog I read, and I believe I will be having no need to read another. After reading it, I also read the comments. There are those who can’t understand how is it possible to love like that, desperately (maybe the best possible translation, but not quite. It is never quite when we need to translate, I am afraid.). I do, and oh how I do.
I have read, in one of your answers to one of the comments that this blog is yours to her and not for the others. It exists so you can yell the words that are making you choke and live in despair.
And this was exactly the answer I gave when I was encouraged to write a blog. I said no, that my words would never be to anyone else.
You seem to pull strength out of writers’ wise words. Although I also like to read, my strengths have been pulled out from songs. I feel them and I make them my gift.
I have lived and, am living still, awful days. Also as my life lost its meaning. Also can’t I correspond to my responsibilities. Everything reminds me the one I love, and everything makes me feel close.
People say it will go away with time. I don’t believe so.
I was sure when I read your blog.
Time won’t wash it away, will it? This emptiness, this unceasing choking angst, this despair to touch who we can’t reach, this will always be, won’t it?
What can still bring some meaning to my life are the little moments when that smile fulfils me. Yes, we are close. Our closeness, the possibility to give another look to that smile, has been the only thing able to make a smile be draw on my lips, although it is simultaneously a joyful and despaired smile.
I don’t know how can you not see her. I can’t… It is painful when we are together, it is unbearable to wan to touch, to feel, to smell, to taste and won’t be able to, but it is endlessly worse not to see that smile.’

Answer to comment’s date: unspecified
Answer to comment’s time: 8.03pm

‘Thank you for sharing your story with me, and most of all for understanding and agreeing with what I feel and write. Most of the time I feel misunderstood and there are only a few people with whom I can speak freely about this forbidden and insane love… I don’t have your courage to face the smile. I have run away from it, and I still avoid it because I always hopelessly fell down the abyss every time I see it. That smile is too big for a fragile creature as myself. It shreds me, minces me, enthrals me, mesmerizes me, transforms me into the happiest person on the world, and a second later I am nothing but miserable.
Can time heal? It never heals, but it does relieve. I think you are feeling the way I felt 5 years ago, when even the breathed air would hurt with the absence of the loved one. Nothing makes sense. Everything is indifferent to us. Only the presence and the words of the loved one would give us some courage, a bit of light, a piece of sky, only the enough to keep on living, on dreaming, to makes us get out of bed.’


‘Creio que foi o sorriso,
o sorriso foi quem abriu a porta.
Era um sorriso com muita luz
lá dentro, apetecia
entrar nele, tirar a roupa, ficar
nu dentro daquele sorriso.
Correr, navegar, morrer naquele sorriso.’

Eugénio de Andrade

‘I believe it was the smile,
the smile was what opened the door.
It was a smile with much light
inside, it felt to
enter it, take off the cloths, stay
naked inside that smile.
To run, sail, die in that smile.’

Eugénio de Andrade


But all this was long ago, and it is to you I now propose to write.
Life is all but a straight line, and mine had undergone a different route.
What was then grief and despair is now something close to a quite peace of mind. I think most of it is still here, is still in me. But it is fading away. Although I think it will never be forgotten.
It is good to remember the happiness, the good times. Not so great to remember the pain and the suffering. But everything comes in pairs, every coin has a second face. And after all, this is LABRYS.