Postcards.

This girl I knew, never really took a lesson from what life threw at her - she just suffered.

This girl I knew, suffered so much inside that her own mum told her she didn't know her anymore. It was so much inside, it was coming out without the girl noticing.

This girl I knew, had good friends and that was good, for she hated being alone. But her friends could not help her. They were probably as lost as she was.

This girl I knew, hated being alone because when she was, she would start thinking and her thoughts would lead themselves into dark places, places she wished she could not see.

This girl I knew, would take her anger and direct it on herself - she didn't really know why, but it made her feel better a split second after she did so. A few hours into it, she felt worse than before.

This girl I knew, she would describe her state as if being locked in a darkened, deep hole - other times, she would say it was the pits of hell she was in. We never got to know which one it really was, and I still believe it was both.

This girl I knew, thought a lot, but did not say much. Not much that would make sense, in any case. And this angered her, and she thought she was losing abilities and turning dumb - something she had never been before. She thought nobody understood her, and she was dead on about that. She could not and did not make sense.

This girl I knew, dove into a world of fantasy to escape her own bleak reality. She would lock herself in her own room after renting dozens of movies with happy endings - or not - watch them, she would weep about how her life would never be like that, forgetting that hardly anyone's life ever is, and then write the night away.

This girl I knew, was hanging on by a string, a very fine, fragile, transparent string.


This girl I knew, was me. And I have no idea where she went, or where she is. She sends me postcards once in a while and I remember her vividly. I remember how she sounded, what she looked like, how she suffered and how she wept.

But at least I can say I learnt a great many things with her. I know that now. I have tools she never had, and that is why she never extracted anything from her life except for the suffering.

Do I miss her? Sometimes. Do I wish she was here? Not ever.

I am happy with postcards.

Daddy

I watch as her beauty disappears behind the thick black eyeliner.
That thing is a weapon of massive beauty destruction and she is a terrorist to herself.
She doesn’t notice me here. She never does.
And I watch her beauty disappear behind that darkness.
Then, I watch her once angel-like hair disappear beneath the big hairbrush – there is now a huge “fashionable” mess replacing it.
Her red hair was not red when she was my little girl. I mean, when she considered herself as such.
Her hair was slightly blonde, like the angels’ hair in heaven ought to be.
Now, there is a savage red mess, blood red hair, matching the ebony black eyes…
She strips off her cute white pyjamas and in come the ripped off blue jeans; then the black fishnet top – all part of fashion, as I am led to understand.
Black everywhere, now also in her wrists as she puts on the studded bracelets and watch.
Instead of the same slippers she has been wearing at home for two years now, she is wearing black combat boots. The transformation is complete.
I lean myself onto the wall and let out a sigh that uncovers my stealth. She looks back, above her shoulder and I haste myself outside. She turns her head and now I notice her writing something on the mirror with the blood red lipstick that is now her trade-mark; or one of them
She is ready to leave and unleash herself into civilization. That is, I dare to consider, her civilisation mask.
I hide in my room when she puts her bag on the left shoulder and leaves.
I enter her room again, to regard the mirror.
There, in blood red, unforgettable and stinging, is written, as if she knew all along I was watching her:
I AM A ROCK STAR INSIDE AND THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN SAY TO ME NOW THAT IS GOING TO CHANGE THAT.
Point taken. Goodbye sweetheart.

Artista por dentro

Sem um teclado normal.
Quantas mais entraves estarão para chegar, ou serei eu que as crio porque não quero admitir que tenho medo de falhar?
Escrevo?
Pinto?
Pinto em digital?
Ou nem me incomodo?
Eu sou assim, artista por dentro; a imaginação não pára de jorrar para dentro da minha cabeça,mas eu não consigo fazer nada dela para mostrar ao mundo.
Talvez um dia...