I have no excuse, I have no way, your letter is true, nonetheless I don’t see my life as a movie I don’t see you as part of the cast of a reality show fabricated in my inexperienced mind.
Like you called me, im a kid, mesmo que considerado por muitos como precoce sou ainda uma criança, a child craving for your forgiveness while standing on his own two feet. I feel no need to grovel, I do not worship the ground you step, but the fascination and the raw curiosity I have for you is genuine. There is more to be said although this is not how id rather spill my soul as a gent once put it. Words are not mine but rest assure I do not play you, I didn’t seek out to write another chapter in a still small book. There is no marvel in the prospect of a fuck, there is no fantasy in the intention of a conquest. Complication, a word I’m not an adept of, I tremble upon its path as I walk unaware at its side. Why was there need for such charades, why was there a detachment of what we lived so eagerly and in a floating manner in the first days. For me it would have gone on like that looking In your eyes and seeing nothing but the ultimate poem of every poet. I use the past tense in my words but not in my mind, its not as over as you want it to be. If you for one second think my disappearance has anything to do with the making of a new friend, that’s right a friend you are very wrong. My neighbour has nice ears and a pleasant taste in music, a patience of an angel, an ideal friend with a long term relationship with a drummer. I trust you believe in my words my fair lady and I call for a sweet rather than a sour feeling towards me. I feel that perhaps the best is to not plan anything ahead, rather awkward, in a small way, the fact that #$%&/#””!&… but I hope you feel welcome and once again encourage you to throw away any bitterness or resentment there may be in your mind. I am sorry.

Emancipation of the self.

Quem sou eu sem ti senão um prenúncio da nulidade?

Para corresponder a quem quiser ter algo correspondido.

300

Ah! Se acontecesse enfim alguma coisa
Algo que me ligasse a luz
Um clarificar de ideias
Porque é que ela me seduz?

É provocativa, intriguista
Sou pai! Tenho filhos!
Uma mulher que amo
Uma vida promissora

Mas não dá, é preciosa
Indubitavelmente como uma rosa
Mil dias passarão
Até eu ver que foi em vão

Um piropo, uma noite
Uma vida estragada
Umas horas de prazer
Com uma menina mimada

Estou só, sem filhos
Sem mulher, sem dignidade
Nem Poe pode escrever
Esta trágica verdade

Vou-me, não venho
Da vida me despeço
Por ela, um ser perfeito
Fui-me, não venho

Just thought I´d bring in Margot to embelish the place

O blog pode ser encarado por muitos como o enaltecimento do próprio ego, uma imagem por si querida, exposta ao mundo demonstrando um possível ou não talento.
Posso referir como exemplo uma certa figura paternal de um bebé luso-russo, cujo nome não irei de maneira nenhuma mencionar. Esta pequena verbalização de uma opinião sob a forma de uma provocação surge como uma tentativa de iniciar um embate entre dois titãs do “Bullshit writing”, um género literário criado pelo meu adversário. Mais belo que o romantismo, mais frio e expositivo que o realismo, mais épico que a epopeia, um género que vomita mais a alma que um poeta boémio com apenas a memória de um louvor. É apelativo. Let the games begin.

We were too young too attempt such a thing. All our lives we wanted to be older, adults, to be seen and treated as mature responsible fully educated human beings, nevertheless, keeping in mind that we know nothing. All we know, or, our parents, sage grandfathers, kings of wisdom, state is that we know nothing of what we need to. We search and always get to a point where we understand there’s much more, we crave this, we desire to get away from our everyday routine that we have become so accustomed to.
As teenagers we, to be more precise and less subjective about this matter, me and her, used to disguise our lack of interest in having a rebel, regular, music listening, dope smoking, ignorant go with the rest of the flock teenage life and try to enhance, create an image of mature security to lead those in the dark that we knew what the hell we were talking about.
Every situation that we pursued and turned out to be wrong, we knew from the start, we knew we were wrong, but felt the need to back our own ignorance up. Maybe a need to show a certain firmness, a strong hand, but now I realize that we just didn’t know better and insisted just due to the fact that it was what we did.
There was never, or once, a situation were we just gave up in the beginning, this was the right thing to do, but never, I say and repeat and stay by my ground when I tell and affirm that we never, ever thought we weren’t old or smart enough to handle it.
But I am no longer a teenager dwelling in the never ending pit of depression and insecurity and the revolving vicious cycle of the cliché in the before mentioned.
I know after an experience, a thrill that shaped the person I am today, that we were too young.

My dogs’ an asshole nevertheless he is a lovable being. I look at him lying on my mother’s bed with a face that seems to transmit worry. He looks into my eyes as I stare back he looks away uncomfortably. I can relate my relationship with my dog to my real life. There is an amazing lack of receptability that a dog can take from a genuine human jerk, an asswhipe to embellish this honourable essay. As I write he does not budge from the most abnormal position a dog can be in, he has his head between his front paws while his back chicken like thighs are spread across the mattress his tale scrunched beneath his body. Why is this, why does my dog stay looking at his owner instead of retreating to his own endeavours such as the destroying of a ducks head rolled inside a sock or manically run around the apartment attempting to lead me into a playtime session. Is he worried? Perhaps. The best and most logical explanations would be or the desire to be fed, pampered with a T-bone of massive proportions or the fact that a scavenger hunt for the scent of other partners in piss is always appealing to mans best friend. But why should I ramble on about the dogs’psique when in fact it is my firm belief that there is no such thing. Animals act on instinct, dogs act on an instinct often compromised by the education of a human person, speaking of which, there seems to be a striking resemblance between this behaviour I expose and the one of a man or woman. All human beings are, according to the theory of the good savage, born good and of kind nature and it is there up bringing that presents them to ways of evil, the elaborate and most evolved human way, the human lust, greed, sloth, envy, gluttony, pride and wrath is the human rulebook, there is no sense in the human brain, just instinct, cold, calculus, selfish instinct. There is no genuine good my friends, although I hate to be the bearer of bad news this is the undeniable truth, to the hopeful, to the Christian, to the pink, to the sweet, to the loved and to those in love, to the preachers of forgiveness, to the beautiful persons, to all who believe in the everlasting power of a good spirit and a kind heart, take my skeptical and cynical advice and go and watch a film, offer your minds to a detachment of reality which is the closest the human nature will get to the feeling they most advertise, love is not real. I bid you farewell and pray that you rest your worries on other things than the sheer morbidness and depressive channelling of a young boys anger.

(To be converted to "Winston's fortnight in hell")

Estou no meu quarto a segurar uma revista a ver a rapariga do vestido que entra, eu conheço-a. Ela olha para mim, estou em pé com a revista na mão. Ela vinha para me dizer qualquer coisa. A minha primeira reacção é vergonha depois rio-me, a situação entretêm-me. Depois, com uma pronúncia brejeira, vulgar, ordinária digo:
- “És mesmo boa pá.” Ela avança e dá-me um estalo. Eu rio-me, sorrio e digo:
-“Desculpa mas é que és memo boa.” Ela atinge-me novamente, eu avanço e á medida que me aproximo dela entalando-a entre mim e a porta ela dá-me outro estalo, e outro, e outro. Até que fica presa diante da sua única saída. Ela está num vestido de noite vermelho, elegante, comprido que deixa ver apenas o necessário para não se encarar como uma conservadora. Os braços, um ligeiríssimo decote e um corte que deixa o testemunho de breves momentos, um relance que sobe a sua perna em direcção á sua coxa, em direcção á sua intimidade. Ela olha para mim com um olhar reprovador no entanto incessante, intrigado. Eu encosto a testa á porta que nos esconde. Demonstrando a minha vulnerabilidade em oposição á minha maneira de ser que ela conhece e bem, calma e controlada. Deixo-me ficar apercebendo-me que ela está a pensar, como um pastor diante de uma equação. Ela não sabe o que fazer, o que dizer, não compreende o que pensar. As suas mãos frias que tentam acompanhar o seu sentimento deixam-se ficar descansando no meu pescoço. A minha cabeça que tinha se aproximado sem que a minha mente a tivesse controlado da sua clavícula, da sua pele entra outra vez em uníssono com um cérebro que me atraiçoara lentamente. Os meus olhos fechados abrem-se com a nitidez do meu pensar. Num movimento rápido mas não brusco estou novamente a olhar os contornos impessoais da sua expressão. Realizo que já não existe. O meu corpo que quer separa-se da minha mente que rejeita. Afasto-me dela e sem tempo para pensar uma segunda vez, considerando o ser diante de mim, digo:
-“Vai-te!” A minha própria cara a discordar com o meu cérebro, confuso e irritado.
-“Se faz favor, sai. O dia já vem longo e a noite que não se arraste.” A sua expressão é adequada mas a sua quietude não me é familiar. Num instante contraditório á lucidez que tanto me custara a alcançar aproximo-me dela, olhos nos seus olhos, passo a passo. Antes de dar o segundo passo ela vira-se e sai.