the unbearable wish

through the window of my bedroom I see Paul, he takes off his shirt everyday at six thirty, which is exactly 45 minutes after I get home from school. The other day I saw Paul at the groceries store, he was wearing that brown shirt that matches his eyes, he asked me if I knew where the chicken broth was, why would he want to know that? was he sick? was his girlfriend sick? Does he even have a girlfriend? My eyes went straight to his tattoo, he has cross on his left arm, I always get drawn to the little tip that gets out his shirt's sleeve. He thinks I'm a weirdo, and maybe I am - you'd be a weirdo for Paul as well - "second row", I said after staring for about 4 seconds. I wish I could just tell him, I can always say everything, I'm not a nerd, not a weirdo... only when he looks at me, as if some sort of spell was cast on me every time I see his eyes, his light brown eyes, like fire on a train track (train track? yeah, that's the image I see when he looks at me), like a train on fire, and I'm inside, burning, but it doesn't matter because he's looking at me, all I see, in the midst of all that fire, are Paul's eyes. All I see are his dashing eyes, for all eternity in his eyes, four seconds. One day I saw Paul at the library, he was reading "The unbearable lightness of being", only him would read literature at a library, well, him and me. He had a hoodie on, so simple yet so complex, how could a creature so mundane seem so angelic to me? His thin pointed nose, those strong shaped lips, high cheeks... not to mention his long fingers flipping through those pages, he would caress his head and touch his hair... to touch his hair...He looked at me and smile, you would think I could not deserve a smile but, like I said, I'm no freak. I just happen to have this urge to get inside his chest forever and stay there, comforted by his weakness and threatened by his strength, wander his thoughts and most shameful desires, speak with Paul's voice, touch with Paul's hands, hear his music but, most of all, see with Paul's fiery eyes. I wish there was a door to Paul's world, to his soul, wish I could consume Paul and all his essence, wish I could be Paul. I wish Paul was real.

the start of amazing men

Hoje Mr. Kowalski esta, e assim ficara, mais confortavel em seu novo lar. Compartilho esse espaco tambem com o mais novo membro da minha (in)consciencia, o garoto malvado da coca. Ele tambem tem coracao e olhos de pedra, rara excecao feita devido aos seus olhos azuis. Eu nunca gostei de homem com olho claro, nao me passa confianca, mas Tommy me mostrou que clareza tambem pode ser empatica. Gostaria de deixar outra coisa clara, aqui nao iras encontrar nada de informativo ou, sendo assim, extremamente construtivo aqueles que veem na superficie do espelho. Me encanta o sexo oposto, obviamente, me encantam suas maneiras distintas e febris de pensar e agir. Divirto- me observando o comportamento masculino: o processamento de informacoes, o raciocinio raro e a formulacao de conclusoes. Homens sao divertidissimos, nao tendo uma missao explicita nesse mundo (no caso das mulheres seria ser mae, supostamente), sentem-se por vezes confusos quanto ao que fazer ou dizer quando questionados sobre o mesmo. Principalmente quando questionados por mulheres, pobres homens, cercados por duvidas sobre o que pensar ou dizer sem que parecam machistas, mal sabem eles que as maiores machistas sao, de fato, as mulheres! Inclusive eu que,acredito ter deixado claro, sou admiradora fiel desse ser tao magnifico e intrigante que e o macho de nossa especie decadente. Voltarei a discutir esse assunto mas, no momento, me encontro absorta em pensamentos por demais cabulosos para, sequer, continuar a escrever.

"Don't you know? You're the most beautiful thing there is in this planet, you're a man..."

Ceu Distante

eu era a primavera e não sabia... quando escuto o choro do vento batendo nas ondas de pais distante me da saudade das águas do sul e das lagrimas do sul. de poemas de Jabor e casas de praia abandonadas, casas de praia aonde minha virgindade repousa, onde a juventude guarda os contos de infância e o cheiro de mofo transporta o espirito de volta a inocência. Havia uma beleza ali ou era criatividade minha, quando andava pela rua cor de sol amarelo ouro, me fitava e eu avermelhando nos jardins de ouro. Desvanecida de amor cor de carmim...
a nostalgia eh a mais louvável forma de viagem no tempo, quando podemos dançar velhas musicas e beijar lábios de primeiros amores, de amores que sequer foram amores. me da uma saudade de ser Carolina, Daniela e Susana - codinomes de quem não da importância a nomes. fantasias e delírios dentro dos teus olhos verdes, lindos - tu não eh único, nem primeiro, nem ultimo - es assim eterno, duradouro, de modo que te confesso agora todos os sonhos de outrora construindo, assim, uma porta para o imaginário, infinito e lirico que existe só no meu pensamento que eh tua morada, enamorada sou eu desse teu animal enjaulado no teu corpo que tem sede da minha sede e fome da minha fome. eu me alimento com teus devaneios enquanto tu te sacias com as minhas mentiras.