Thursday, 25th of May 2017
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.//
I don’t know what to say… April did go really fast for me, did the same happen with you? I thought that I would enjoy deeply every day of this year, and, on the contrary, what I really feel is that everything is slipping through my fingers, speeding up in a way that I can’t even describe what have happen this year, it seems life is just happening in a numb manner … but maybe the antidote for all these emotions flowing through my skin is to do something…
So, in these two days off from work, I decided to pick up all my clothes that were unstitched in some particular spot and had fixed them. At the end, the constant anxiety about life, my bloody worries, all the emotions that I constantly feel, and that can only be translated into more worrying, were gone. I felt that my anxiety was placed with the satisfying feeling of accomplishment.
These small acts of dedication and commitment to something are a good way to find peace, meditate while we are passing the threads trough the clothes fabrics and, a way to respect the environment, because while we fix a piece of cloth — we know that we are reducing the clothing waste, we become aware what we have inside of our wardrobe and we are being productive. Summerly, I hope this post inspires you to do the same and find quietness in your life which is the most imperative.
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.
Light is attempting to fade discreetly but is still noon, only 5 o’clock, so why start to fade in such rush?
The night is still so distant from this particular hour, from my notion of time, and as I conjecture about the invention of life, my tea is blowing away a gentle a cloud of steam that blurs the present. But I am not thinking of the past, I am feeling it instead: I am smelling the scent of random moments like a true nostalgic soul.
It’s all so intensely real and everything starts with me breaking my mother’s womb, taking my first handful breath of fresh air, a disperse sun glance over my pale skin and my enormous brown eyes gazing into this new world. In all of these memories, I don’t regret the first steps that I dared to take, I just regret the way that I/we end up living — chained to a material world that doesn’t truly exist.
“Our fingers will open the closed hands.” – Sophia de Mello Breyer Andersen, Coral.
Monday, 24th of October 2016
I am always very surprised with myself in the early hours of the morning, everything is so unfamiliar and yet, how many times was I born to live in this insipid place? With my eyes closed, I open the doors that lead me to the olden and shabby corridors which once I was verily acquainted, endless corridors that used to lead me to wonderful and secret places. I close my eyes to listen the distant Schubert and frame these memories in a secure place that I call heart.
I’ve a lot of letters to answer at the moment and I’m avoiding it, I guess I’m waiting for the right words to come.