i wonder what comes out when i’m on the verge of splitting. if i am able to turn pain into art, or anything resembling it for that matter. every bit of me hurts. and for a while, i just sit still. tears run down to my legs and i don’t even move. i circle the idea of life without me. how perfect is life without me. a gift i’m not allowed to earn. or maybe i am. but, for some...
sometimes it’s just too much. i’ve been having constant nightmares. dreams that feel like weeks, complicated plots. these last few days have been harder. lately it came to me: physical pain is a true form of mindfulness. while it aches, it is impossible to escape the present moment. you are there, all of you. and it hurts. emotional pain, on the other hand, it the exact opposite...
– from the NYT Modern Love section: (…) Life seems so much tamer these days: deceptively quiet, like a tiger with velveted paws. Every so often the sun shines too bright and I think, for a moment, that I own the sky. I think, how wonderful it was to be Gilda, if only in my own mind. But then I remember the price of the sky. So I take off my makeup, rumple my hair and go to the...
acredita no caminho traçado. vai, acredita. o dia passa num suspiro, você faz tanta coisa. só da pra sofrer antes de adormecer. quando dá. trabalha, trabalha, trabalha. e no intervalo, você sabe, tem sempre risada, tem (quase) sempre apoio pra seguir. a gente lida com a vida do jeito que lida com o celular roubado: aconteceu, passou. coisas são só coisas e nada vai estragar a minha noite. vai lá...
i could never imagine how smooth it would go. 26 days into the treatment, i got easily used to all the needles, the hormones, appointments, and seeing my insides, daily, through a blurry screen. not much else has changed: not my mood, nor my productivity. it’s much easier than adapting to many of the drugs i take on a regular basis. it’s almost effortless – though super...
it was almost dark outside and i could barely hear the heavy traffic in the distance, muffled by a manufactured sound of rain, playing endlessly by some device. that very sound, my friend told me months before, it’s great for soothing babies. the lights were out and i rocked him, as the lullaby chanted repeatedly along the water. When you press me to your heart I’m in a world apart A...
Come a little bit closer, here’s what a have to say. He got up from the sofa, on his way to the bathroom as Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, started playing on the tv. That was the first moment i had to sink in to what was going on for the past week. As I laid there, exhausted and high, i closed my eyes and was instantly transported to Vallejo St. It only took a few seconds, but i could see...
all my love stories begin the same: we spend 36 hours in bed. but, then, don’t they all? of course, there was something before and it wasn’t, yet, a love story. there’s always the first conversation, the excitement of message swaps and, eventually the first date. a first date that (lately) more often than not turns into something not worth giving a second thought. and finally...
haven’t been able to write. can’t seem to find the time to tap these keys and, meanwhile, my head spins to a symphony of repeating thoughts of where, when, how and why. i close my eyes and find myself in a garden. not any garden. his arm is around my waist, mine around his. he carries my bag, as he always insists too. his grey winter coat, my gray winter coat, the only two we have...
oh. i heard you haven’t been able to cry, lorena. you might aswell try to watch fleabag then. watch her stroke the priest’s hair while they wake up. watch him walk away, saying, it will pass. watch her walk away to the sound of alabama shakes. I just kept hoping, I just kept hopingThe way would become clearI spent all this time tryna play nowI found my way hereSee, I’ve been...