Carmilla

“For some nights I slept profoundly; but still every morning I felt the same lassitude, and a languor weighed upon me all day. I felt myself a changed girl. A strange melancholy was stealing over me, a melancholy that I would not have interrupted. Dim thoughts of death began to open, and an idea that I was slowly sinking took gentle, and, somehow, not unwelcome possession of me. If it was sad, the tone of mind which this induced was also sweet. Whatever it might be, my soul acquiesced in it.”

J. Sheridan Le Fanu

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Over a Flowering Bed

 

16th of August 2016

Dear Diary,

Dandelions, dragonflies, little birds flying everywhere. In this garden, life appears to me as a singular delight and my soul lays peaceful in contentment over a flowering bed. Mysterious doors, closed windows, old walls, stories waiting to be unveiled and told. Here there is no sadness, no fearful nights or injured memories. Half of me shall recovery here. Half of me shall find love here.

My hideaway

 

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14th of August 2016

This week, I’ve finally finished to decor my working station, I don’t even like to call it – a working space, because, for me, this place is more a hideaway, a shelter, a place of recovery than a place to work. Once in a while, I look steadily at it and I feel proud of all of this assemblage. All the flowers and the old things that I have been collecting, finding in the streets mean so much for me… Lately, I doubt so much of myself but the simple act of looking at this place makes me realize that I am capable of something, but for these results I need time… and in nowadays, we seem to have forgotten what truly means: “slow down”. Day after day, I despise more and more crowded places, cities and chaos, I would rather live in a small cute village than in a city, I long for this day so badly, but for now I’ve this improvised shelter.

I think this day deserves too a poem from Emily Brontë:

Moonlight summer moonlight

‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight,
All soft and still and fair;
The solemn hour of midnight
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending
Their breezy boughs on high,
Or stooping low are lending
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers
A lovely form is laid;
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers
Wave gently round her head.

Emily Brontë

This Tiny Melancholy

“Who hasn’t felt this melancholy, this tiny thing whose origin is unknown to me.”

Poem by Jorge Barbosa, Momento.

Versão Original em português:

Quem aqui não sentiu
esta nossa
fininha melancolia?

(…)

Esta nossa
fininha melancolia
que vem não sei de onde.
Um pouco talvez
das horas solitárias
passando sobre a ilha
ou da música
do mar defronte
entoando
uma canção rumorosa
musicada com os ecos do mundo.

Poema Momento de Jorge Barbosa.

Letter to Vibeke

 

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Left Unfinished

Do you know that exquisite sensation when you meet someone for the first time, but, deep inside of you, something tells you that in another life and place you already meet her/him? These persons are our kindred souls, old souls that wander in this life and are meant to meet again and live what was left unfinished… So please, be aware that life has an end, so don’t forget to treasure the ones you love the most and show everyday how much you care for them. You won’t regret it, believe me!

In this photo is a letter to the special soul Vibeke and an old tray that I have found broken near to my house, outside of a street litter. I brought it home and fix it, and now it looks precious.

 

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Love Series: A letter to Isa

 

Dear Isa,

are these unreasonable thoughts of yours? and are mine these awaken nights in these stripped sheets?

How long do I write you nothing more than words? There is a cigarette that blends in the wind and there is a time that badly fades. Don’t suffer, Isa, don’t suffer, my love… There is a moon that lights more than the night and a thought. A perfect feeling for you.

Francisco.

Querida Isa:

são teus esses pensamentos despropositados e são minhas estas noites acordadas em tamanhos lençóis despidos.

Há quanto tempo não te escrevo mais do que palavras? Há um cigarro que se confunde com o vento e há um tempo mal-apagado. Quantos filtros serão precisos para que deixe de doer? não sofras, Isa, não sofras, meu amor, não sofras no trago amargo desse cinzeiro esfumado. Há uma mortalha que se acende sempre no sopro bem-enrolado daquilo que não compreendes. entre a noite e o dia, há muito que não te digo. Uma lua que acende, mais do que a noite e pensamento. Um sentimento perfeito. Amo-te muito. xx

Francisco.

P.s – These letters are real and the love, that one… was beyond the reality.

Love series by The Candour Cabin 

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Love Series – Is love Changeable?

“You have absorb’d me. I have a sensation at the present moment as though I was dissolving – I should be exquisitely miserable without the hope of soon seeing you. I should be afraid to separate myself far from you. My sweet Fanny, will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limit now to my love – You note came in just here – I cannot be happier away from you – ‘T is richer than an Argosy of Pearles. Do not threat me even in jest.”

Is love changeable? Does love meets a beginning and an end? Does love grow? Does love expands and contracts like a beating heart? Does love die? All these questions. I need to find answers.

John Keats writes in his letter to Fanny Brawne about his feelings towards her: “My sweet Fanny will your heart never change? My love, will it? I have no limite now to my love…”. He has no limit at the present to his love, but in the future? Well, we know how it ends, Keats and Fanny didn’t belong together. Romantics lived so intensely their feelings, they were completely overwhelmed by everything – nature, love, friendship, etc. They were bond to this world with a transfixing and ethereal connection. The feelings were so intense that it was almost impossible to breath – their poetry showed an uncontrollable intoxication of feelings. It was perhaps too much, but if we don’t dare to live like romantics did, is life worth? Is love worth? Is art worth? Is literature worth?

Buddhism teach us to don’t grow attached to material things – to this mundane life.  Soon or later, everything will meet an “end”. We don’t own persons or things, we are here, in this life, just to absorb.

But why love has to end? But why are we enable to forgive, and learn to fall in love every day? Why?  So much lovers write love letters and suddenly, one day, they simply stop to do it. So, were we really in love? I believe in a kind of love that mutates, that never stops to reach a higher form of being. “Love is kind, love is patient!”, it must be! Love is like a butterfly, it mutates and in the end, something, beyond beautiful, is born.

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