Tuesday, 21st of November 2017
I often make these questions to myself: Destiny, do you really exist? Do our souls perpetuate their existence in different bodies, living endlessly life after life? And yet… I haven’t find a precise answer. I just have the unexplainable feeling of belonging to another time and place. A feeling that I cannot silence, that leaves me restless, lost in this present life, in-between everything: unfulfilled.
Porto, 6th of April 2017
I’ve encountered the immaterial, the boreal… The soft light that gently touches the flower of the deads after so much suffering. I’ve encountered something that only belongs to those who live in Asylum. In desertion from the common senses. I’ve touched the invisible and felted it like rain drops and spring petals. And I shed a tear, only one and let it linger above Schubert and the white chrysanthemums. I let the boreal house my soul, confine it into something purer, undress it and triumph on the edge of the light for once.
Porto, 10th of November 2016
Undress the clothes that confine the trueness of this unbodied skin: allow me to know triumph just once! Await, and than drag me through the edge of dark woods to cast my soul over the silver fountains of light: let them fled my fears and the haunting sorrows of a past that is about to revive. Let them replace the dirty mud living in me with aereal white Chrysanthemums; await until my arose and, at my last breath, warm these gelid hands with love and never with doom, ’cause love should always come before it.
18th of September 2016
The gold tones of Autumn are still few, but I know that it already started. Rain shall fall and wind shall whistle. Leaves shall immerse into an effortless dance; and my recondite thoughts shall join this furtive waltz.
11th of September 2016
We hold in ourselves a suspend place called the enclosed garden. Is fairness is made of sparkling roses, gentle moss and elegant little ivies. Our soul knows keenly this place, full enchantments, because every time she faces a war, it is here that she returns to revive. Mine has been there for a while: bathing in roses, eating the magic from starlights — healing. Now, she breathes profoundly, she is genuine and pure again. She is not covered with the mantel of fears that we all wear. She let it fall into the floor to become moss, and than earth. She wears now a translucent dress made of hope, mercy and crystalline grace.
7th of September 2016
This morning, memories of my infancy flood through my eyes – my grandfather appeared to me with his tenderness and I heard him call for me: “Little Princess, where are you going?”. I was less than 5 years old, my feet were small and fragile. Around me was the little paradise raised by my grandmother and grandfather’s hands. A vivid bougainvillea climbed through the walls with gracefulness: it was so immense and so utterly beautiful to gaze it. Peaceful I was in those days, I was part of everything and I wasn’t apart from nothing. I was fearless and pure. I didn’t felt emptiness or loneliness because I was bounded to a secret imaterial world where such a thing didn’t exist. Those days of joy where my grandfather father’s hand was still reachable are felt today with affection and nostalgia.
“Some women feel the need to act like they’re never scared, needy or hurt; like they’re as hardened as a man. I think that’s dishonest. It’s ok to feel delicate sometimes. Real beauty is in the fragility of your petals. A rose that never wilts isn’t a rose at all.”
Early this morning, searching for quietness amidst the things I treasure.
“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”