.the will post.

setting: 1:56 AM, finalizing the first short film in this lifetime.

is there a way when there’s a will?

when there’s no will, there’s still a way.

and when you will… there’s away.

it’s funny to think of your body as countless fragments of consciousness, always under mutiny.

constant anarchy.

countless fragments rip each other apart because it’s their will, because it’s their way.

is loneliness an invisible pet that only wants to be fed and take your mind off of things?

or maybe it’s a cactus.

it likes to remind you it exists and will remain no matter how much it’s neglected.

just don’t water it often.

-

cactuses drown.

...laugh, my thirsty friend.

.the bus post.

setting: midnight, ‘it’s so beautiful it hurts’ bullshit mindset on.

hopefully anger will be an accessible feeling next time.

oh, the buses you wish you could take…

you spend ages trying to have the least bit of energy to fall in that and moments after you’re in the second thoughts start fluttering around.

maybe loving is just like aging; inevitable even if at times undesirable.

it’s been so long since you’ve felt this way you actually wonder whether you feel good or you feel sick. whether nothing else matters or if that’s just good old nirvana looming around the corner.

hopefully anger will be an accessible feeling next time you feel dissuaded.

you remember why you ponder getting intoxicated often…

hey, those are the buses you get to drive.

-

it’s just so scary to feel good…

...my way on the highway...

.the puck post.

setting: 3:35 AM, aching from insomnia, hours after Madison Square Garden.

it feels terribly inappropriate to be writing about hockey crumpled up in bed.

especially when you don’t know the first thing about it and you keep calling the puck a ball during the game.

figure skating gladiators, gliding faster than the eye can see.

hockey’s like the joke our days have become; figure skating gladiators and the unattainable flying puck.

it’s about being an outsider more than willingly, after all it does feel great to be surrounded by a screaming crowd, oblivious to their reasons but aware of their joy.

and you wonder where to look, what’s important and how it works…

maybe it wouldn’t be as fun if you knew how it all is really supposed to be played.

maybe it’s better to just crash, slash and burn.

-

oh puck… at least you get to hit people.

...please, make it hurt.

.the color post.

setting: 1:40 AM after a lukewarm bittersweet winter week.

from north to southwest, running in circles throughout our LoveLand.

no train that we can take there.

all that we feel comprises one vast and concrete metaphysical country; our LoveLand.

the compass is broken and news are rushing in from left and right.

winter’s just an excuse for touch; in LoveLand.

it’s our territory, LoveLand.

Yesterday dances Hemisphere as Tomorrow toasts with Meridian.

travels every day. no one ever stops.

and we’re all together, our contexts mashed up. our laughter scattered.

the clock ticked.

dynamite – we’re blown apart.

I’ll be off. waiting. for the next field trip into LoveLand…

-

…this itinerant piece of heaven with impermanent coordinates.

...true colors in hiding.

.the paperback post.

setting: Brooklyn, healing from a sore throat and “The Catcher In The Rye”.

it was so beautiful you could cry.

pages made of paper. nothing clickable, nothing linkable, nothing multimedia.

just the perfect roundup of old favorites: time and ink.

it had become very frustrating to read. to incorporate someone else’s thoughts.

but when their words hide meaning, your own make sense to you.

someone respectable to agree with. a guru with pages to drink from.

maybe not a date, a coach, a minister nor a mirror will quench our thirst for guidance.

maybe an author could suffice?

-

boy, you could be crying, had you updated your tear duct plug-ins…

...when a body catch a body...

.the accidental post.

setting: Sao Paulo, beats after a long friendship’s online euthanasia.

well, so long old bean, it’s been a dream being with you.

it was bound to happen.

were we primates, one of us would always want the bone.

were we twins, one of us would always want the shorter hairstyle.

were we characters of the Lion King, one of us would want the throne.

nervous boys. weapons cocked. shaking wrists. passive aggression.

boom.

the mirror shattered. the reflection is askew.

a band apart. the gifts returned. the glitz of clashing stars.

the world was too small for the two of us.

the last drop of resentment. the last flick of dust in the eye.

heaps and heaps of cowardice and shielding.

in an arena, our final confrontation would be booed like there was no tomorrow.

-

alas, the truth came out.

...there won't be blood.

.the decade post.

setting: afternoon, Brazil, December 31st, packing for 2010.

one of these days I decided to look up all the definitions of “time” that the encyclopedias, grandmotherpedias and onlinepedias could comprise.

physical, metaphysical and quantum-physical attempts of allusion, of course.

these characters you’re laying eyes on right now are being put together through taps on keys in a certain period in a certain time.

10 hours before a group of relatives embrace and chant their joys and hopes over a happy new decade.

5 minutes after a last warm hasta la vista hug in a loved one for a long time.

other than that, they’re just keys and words crafted in the dawn of a new decade.

like our intervals, our significations, our conceptions, our beliefs…

…a decade.

a heartbeat of a tree, a lifetime of a dog, a chapter of our story…

…time.

-

threads of time, weaving mittens.

...the aftertaste of unconditional love.

.the homeland post.

setting: my old bed, joined by the gusts of wind in Campo Grande, Brazil.

there is a very redeeming quality to returning: the checkpoint.

tracing thoughts, back and forth, counting the steps and looking back astonished at the foreseen and the unforeseen.

it is a very beautiful thing to wear your journey proudly. to lock eyes and smiles with resharpened faces your mind was bound to blur.

to miss, to be missed, to reunite and to laugh at how trivial distance can be, and how strong good ties can remain.

nostalgia is not the word. nostalgia makes you think of sad faces, morning breath and dark corners.

forgiving yourself for having despised your folk.

for having no patience with those who never had a reason to feel like you.

those who might not seem perfectly sculpted to your also imperfect and demanding eyes, yet those who are made of the same clay as you.

the clay you chose to shape elsewhere.

as amazing as it is to feel unique, there’s nothing like feeling united.

-

we would understand everything, could we walk the lengths we fly…

...as simple as a straw hat...

.the returning post.

setting: at home, under freezing Brooklyn rain, a week away from Brazil.

sometimes you taste an ending when you bite into a beginning.

days away from the homeland, and it feels like never having left.

it doesn’t feel like an impending journey back in space.

it feels like an approaching journey back in time.

and we cannot buy a plane ticket back to our golden years…

return. return. return.

something about this concept.

nostalgia at twenty three seems almost rude it is so inadequate…

-

let’s make it an all new season?

...winter to summer overnight...

.the candle post.

setting: early morning, back to reality, still jet-lagged, scattered everywhere.

there’s something really enticing about the ocean; it’s never clear about its purpose.

crossing above the waves, crossing under the waters, it’s almost as if it rocks your spirit to sleep.

at some point you’re in lukewarm water. at some point your fire is drenched.

at some point your candle is put out.

you wish you could rekindle the same flame. you wish the next ember would spark the same.

it will be lit again, how silly to assume otherwise.

I guess it’s not about the candle, nor the warmth, nor the shimmering, or the waters.

-

it’s about the set of eyes under the candlelight…

...there's wick, there's wax, there's you.