The Rose Garden

Tuesday, 5th of June 2018

 
June, red roses bloomed to rest peacefully, one by one, under my eyes. And you, my love? Where have you been? Would you be fully merry to see them as I do in this very moment? I can’t hear your voice neither your answer, but, in secret, I will linger, hover and wait for you in this endless garden of roses.

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Souls

Wednesday, 23rd of May 2018

Forever incarnating souls. My feet earthwards and my head conquering the heaven. Multitudes of lives. Immeasurably away, my soul became a fragment, instead of the universe itself. A soul growing unearthly and gleaming in this otherworldly life, laying lonesome above the lilies, longing to reach the never seen arms. And Finally, someone came to unite two in one. After all, I was never alone, I was just wandering blind.

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Rain

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Under the clouds, after the rain chariot calms down, little rain drops settle silently in the thousand unfulfilled spaces. And, between the petals roses and me there is a hidden place: the diaphanous realm, where I linger for hours to pursuit earth and heaven — to seek, to refund what cannot abide.

Silence and New Dreams

Wednesday, 7th of February 2018

The new year begun and already a month flew by, now it’s February and I am enjoying the silence that travels through my flat’s walls. There is an empty room since my grandma left to live in a retirement house and, for the first time in years, I am experiencing the bliss of solitude (not that I didn’t enjoy her company, but one must accept the life changes and see the big picture, instead of always focusing in details).

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I have set new goals for 2018, as I always do, and one of them is to redecorate my grandma’s old room. I am already starting to pick some paper ephemera and postcards from my collection to display on the wall. When I am finished I will share the result with all of you!

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Teixeira de Pascoaes

Recently, on my vacations, I’ve discovered the remarkable work of the writer and poet Teixeira de Pascoaes. I was immediately moved after reading the first page of his famous book named ‘The Poor Fool’, I totally recognized myself in the Fool’s skin: contemplating the dusk, reflecting unceasingly about the existence and the limb between life and death. And, as Teixeira de Pascoaes said: ‘Everything is a dream of a poor fool. And the poor fool is too a dream, a dream of a God that didn’t fully reincarnate. Therefore, he is involved into a halo, and he has the weight of cloud.’

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For a Friend

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Tuesday, 3rd of October 2017

Fall arrived into a disappearing Summer, there is a terminus for everything but I keep going, following the traces left by the angels and the white butterflies. The flowers are withered, rain hasn’t been falling, so they faded, they faded into you. Should I replace the rain with my tears so they can bloom again? So you can be content again? Or should I wait, be hopeful … trust with patient that every terminus will encounter a beginning?

 

Thursday, 29th of June 2017

Dear Diary, //Let us be credulous that, one day, such joy will meet our way. // I’ve found a memory covered and hidden beneath the forgotten dust of time — and a past moment had unravel before my eyes as it was this very present moment, as it was my true essence.

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Dusk it was, a particular moment of the day where this world and the other meet and become one. Where everything converge, twist and takes a shape. Where everything around us is compelling and enticing, where our soul isn’t a prisoner, isn’t contained, but instead disperse and free, connected with that invisible world, where, at once, is moon, light, sun, fortune, glory and hope. Dear Diary, I long for these kindred days.

End of May and you are still faraway

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                                                           Thursday, 25th of May 2017

Dear Diary,

There is something comforting about taking my socks off, resting my feet on the grass, and emptying my mind from my own howling thoughts… It’s magical permitting myself to feel the abandonment, the freedom from my personality, my middling interests and existing as an improvised tree. There is something magical about don’t move, don’t think, don’t speak. Something magnanimous about being and sparkle the warm-cold light of the dusk…  There is something perpetual about my feet against the fuzzy grass that exhale the demons out of my body skin. //End of May and you are still faraway.//