This tremendous cage I live inside. My goal is to find the key, to finally live free - free of the fears that have been follow me all my life.

(08/01/2012)

“Aqui neste lugar onde tu não estás tudo é descartável.
Como se para fazer uso do mundo precisasse de ti.”

                Pedaço de fim de ano

O tempo do ano que o vento fica mais forte

Onde as folhas caem confortavelmente nos pés das árvores

Onde o banco do parque não fica mais ocupado

Onde seus braços enrolam-na como um cobertor

Digerindo-a com sua proteção

“Writers aren’t people exactly. Or, if they’re any good, they’re a whole lot of people trying so hard to be one person. " F. Scott Fitzgerald

“This tremendous world I have inside of me. How to free myself, and this world, without tearing myself to pieces. And rather tear myself to a thousand pieces than be buried with this world within me."

—	Franz Kafka

We began as wanderers, and we are wanderers still. We have lingered long enough on the shores of the cosmic ocean. We are ready to set sail for the stars.

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality.”

—	Shirley Jackson We create because we want to live.

‘Syzygy’

Definition: when three celestial bodies are aligned - ie, the sun, earth and moon.

“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”

—	Pablo Neruda, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair

It seems to me that everything in my life has been born out of a loneliness. I was born because of two lonely people promising each other something that neither wanted. I was born in the middle of a thunderstorm, and the world is an incredibly expansive place. Every conversation I’ve had, every book that I’ve ever read. All of it was to find some place where I could finally rest. Every word I’ve written has a lingering, spreading sense of loneliness. And I am afraid that this feeling will eventually arrest all of my senses. I do not want to be struck by a perpetual sense of loss, because at the moment I feel like I have lost a part of myself. I feel like I am in one of those soapbox cars. I am made to be struck by matchsticks.

I am a master of imaginary conversations. 
The people in my head are often more real 
than people I can touch and see. 
But this kind of madness is allowed. 
It is the only way I can keep living,
by fashioning alternate endings
and shaping new realities. 

She travelled across a desert with the sun on her back, gathering beads of diamond sweat in the seams of her elbows. Slowly, December starts to pull underneath her feet and the world is losing bricks and mortar. No more do curious eyes come to rest on her hands. Sometimes she is glad that she has left civilisation behind. It is the sand in her eyes that engraves itself firmly. The nights are bitter, a game of chance between a pitched canvas tent and an ailing life. This is what she was born to see. The walk would clutch at her thighs and stretch her consciousness. Sand forms fissures in a hungry void, and she is afraid that she might stumble deep into the black. Her life is wilting. But there are still hundreds of steps to take, and only she can take them.

30

Bart Cubbins' art.

When you decide to die, little things begin to happen. You stop looking both ways before you cross the street, you start answering the door without asking who’s there. You don’t hold onto the railing when you go down the escalator, you don’t buckle your seat belt. You play with matches. You smoke, and breathe it in, actually praying it will make a difference. Deciding to die is actually almost nice, in a way. You stop caring. Even if you are not pro-actively looking for ways to kill yourself, you stop looking for ways to survive.

He can’t stop crying, and he won’t get out of bed and feel worth something. Last month was his twelfth birthday. On the night of the sixteenth, he closed his eyes and wished that everything would be happy. His eyes look dead now, as though they have had something taken away from them. I rub my palm against the curve of his back, telling him to stop. I have seen this all before. I have seen the flinching words, the red swelling that has to be explained away the next morning. I have felt thunder underneath the eaves of my home, but yet I do not know what he is thinking. I do not know it, but I can guess. It is like coaxing a deer out of a thicket. I am slow, gentle. I do not say anything harsh, make no sudden moves. His clothes are laid out on the foot of his bed for him. It is as though an explosion has occurred, and he is the victim of a deep silence that has forged itself into him. We walk towards the bathroom, and I help him into the shower. There, at least, his tears can mingle with the running water. There he can cry without being seen. He can be invisible. His sorrows can evaporate. This is my hope.