Quem espera sempre alcança, já dizia o ditado. Mas eu o desdigo, sem troça. Quem espera desespera, diria então o outro. E esse já cabe em mim com todo seu sentido. Na espera do esperado, desespera-se porque já sabemos o final que irá ser contado. Mas na teimosia do esperar, porque sabendo que se chegasse já deveria ter chegado, vamos reconhecendo que, afinal, o que se teima é não querer desteimar. No desteimar, perde-se a ilusão daquilo que poderia ser, mas nunca será. Nunca será, mas poderia ser.
Há este doce afago que aquece as ilusões, personificando-as no desejado. Pois são elas, afinal, que esperam por nós, todos os dias e todas as noites. Enrolam-se aninhadas no pescoço, amarram-nos os braços e tapam-nos os olhos, e deixamo-las estar, assim enganadas, enquanto pensam que quem nos engana são elas.
Há um rio que atravessa a casa. E as memórias vão nadando contrariando a corrente. Não querem ser levadas e buscam sustento. Estão todas desgrenhadas, já não lhes resta vaidade, apenas arrependimento. De não terem sido salvas a tempo.

Snooze

Is there something better than a snooze?
I "snoozed", you "snoozed", he "snoozed"... even the verb itself sounds good even being completly wrong. I love wrong things.
It's good we all "snooze" for a while. You see how grandious everything tiny can be, you see how tiny everything grandious is, too. And the medium keeps being medium. It doesn't exist. It keeps being absent.
The wonderful meeting with a snooze: waking up and not even remembering your name. And when you eventually remember it, spelling it as the most surprisingly thing you have ever discovered in your entire life about yourself.
My name is Ana. A-n-a... That's really strange. I have never though that me, myself, was actually represented by a sound. I knew I was, I just never though about that. So... maybe I didn't really know.
How many people really think about the sound that represents themselfs? We all have a label. And the majority of our label's don't really mean anything, but they have a energy. How maybe not really a energy, that is getting to much "ying yang" here... But it is something quite funny, it is something immutable. Never changes. I was born and I was giving this name and I will die having this name. Even if I decided to change it to "Debora Cristal", I guess there will be dozens of people who will never forget my original name. I will be always Ana. Liking it or not.
After a snooze. After a snooze I got emotional about my name. Not because it's beautiful. Just because it is a freaking sound my parents put on me and it will never change. I found it interesting. And such a short sound. It really sounds...quick. Simple. And easy.
Now I understand why everyone calls me Luelmo instead.

professionalism vs feeling

That's it.
We can not be good professionals if we feel. Well... the majority of times.
A friend of mine told me how disappointed he was about a friend of him, who he recomended to a "big guy" of a "big company" and to whom this friend sent an horrible curriculum like if he didn't care. And my friend asked me "Why did he waste his time like that?".
I said.. "Man.. I don't know. Maybe because he was not so into it,... why to go against it?"

I am working too many hours a day, I guess. And I guess I am working well while I am working, but in the end of the day I just want to "put them on the bitches", sorry my french/portuguese! And if I had to send a curriculum to these guys again I would say "I am wondeful, but don't try to get more than what I have to give. My wonderfullness has an end".
He gave right away what he had to give. And he was not accepted. Correct... Fail!
Because, yes.. we all end up giving more than we have to give, and that is not so good after all. This guy knew it already. As I knew it already, also. But I needed this job, anyway. Lucky him, he didn't need it so much.

Now I am just thinking how amazing would it be to wake up and to do exactly what I want to do. Without anyone saying
- Listen, your curriculum looks a bit.. vague.
To what I would like to answer:
- Listen, your belly got very big in the lats years, didn't it?

Dreams

Dreams...
Who can explain a dream?
I am not talking about desires, those things we want to have or to do in our little lifes nor the things we plan. I am talking about dreams, those strange messages, images, words, feelings, sensations that come into our sleep.
I guess it is one of the most explored subjects ever but until now it remains being one of the most secret secrets of our mind.

I often dream with water. Big waves. Really big waves, Tsunamis. And in these dreams the big wave is approaching and sometimes I feel fear, sometimes I don't. What I know it's that anything bad happens. The wave catchs me but I float, reaching the top of the wave that vanishes after a while or I just wake up. Or sometimes I am inside a building and the water hits the window, but I am safe inside. Nothing bad happens, I never drown. It's just water in a great proportion.
Mister Freud would say its is my desire of being amazed with great proportions of male attention (to not say other thing..) or I am in my fertil period or something like that. But I think it must be something else. Which I really don't know.

Then there are these more common dreams, where I am running away from something. It can be men with guns willing to kill me, or monkeys throwing stones. I can be in a typical favela from Rio or in a garage hiding between cars. They always know where I am hiding, its frustrating and scary, not matter how far I go, they always find me. But of couse, then I wake up. I never die, they never touch me.
About this last one I could say it's the normal fear of being persecuted and killed. But in my normal real life I am not affraid of that. I don't feel threatened by anyone. And still, why am I running away from monkeys or running down a hill in Rio? Too much movies, I guess.

But the most interesting one is the one I am going to talk about now:
I dreamed that I was giving birth. Okay, dont say anything yet, Mister Freud, because it is a bit more strange than the simple desire of having babies or, again, being amazed with great proportions of male attention.
The interesting/scary thing was that I was expecting to have pain and I dind't have. And why not? Because I was expecting to give birth to a normal baby but he came out in a second and so I thought: "Hum, he must be really tiny". And the baby was, actually, really tiny, but with a face of a grown up child. The nurse, or whatever she was, presented me to my new born baby and despite his unnormal look I was streching my arms to hug him. But this crazy baby, tiny as an hamster and with a face of a five years old child gave me a reproachful gaze with his big eyes opened. And I thought: "Okay, boy, with that attitude he should go straigh to the nursery without having to please me". And so he went.
I've never seen the boy again. I know I was very worried about his condition because he was so tiny but at the same time he was represeting a problem I didn't really want to deal with. So I left him there, at the nursery, dealing with his own issues without visits. ("yeah, boy, who do you think you are?").
But the sweetest thing was... I gave him a name. His name was Henry. WHAT? HENRY? Yes, Henry, exactly like that.. an english name. Henry. And I was worried about him but I was much more worried about his father whom I was still waiting to share the 'problem' with me. He was a problem, basicly. And the father, also, who never came.
And then I remember having a friend exactly in the same situation. And I remember asking her to go and see my boy while she was going to see hers. But after asking this, I asked her "But were you pregnant, too?! WHY? How? I didn't notice it!". And there was my friend with a big belly (already after giving birth and still with a big belly, don't know why..) saying something like: Yes, I actually saw Henry the other day, he was alive!". And I felt relieved.
Okay, I woke up... And I felt even more relieved because that was just a dream. But it was a dream that I am going to remember for the rest of my life. Probably it would undergo several changes though, because we never really know what we were dreaming about and we creat and recreat everything until the point we lose its basic essence. So, to avoid that, I am recording this here.
Henry, the baby. My problem. The problem I am still trying to solve in my mind. Who are you, bastard?

Poetic Bacterias

...I have heard some days ago that the Egypt pyramids were not built by the Egypcians. What about that?
This is not that important, you would say, but it is, indeed. It gives us that strange feeling that everything we have been learning, all this time, is a lie.
Very much the same way people would have felt, centuries ago, when they were told that the sun didn't spin around earth, but exactly the opposite, putting us in a lower level. Submissive. Slaves.
I guess this is why we suffer from melacholy. As if it was taken from us the power, the power of feeling important, so important that we would even have a star, the biggest one we have ever known, delighting us with its light, serving us with its warmth. It is not true, we are the ones running after that light and warmth. If we stop spinning, we die. And that big star will continue there, exhaling light and warmth, even in the day we are vanished.
The Egyptians didn't build those pyramids. They are older than the Egyptians themselfs. Some say they were built by aliens. What about that?
Well, this does not change big things in our lifes, I guess. Because now we are already aware of our insignificance and we acept much more easier new theories about everything. And we dont necessarilly beleive in aliens, either, it is just a choice we have, to beleive or not. But I have to say that, now, I start doubting if Darwin's theory is actually right or if, in the end, Adam and Eve are our main ancenstors. Maybe no one is right.. 'till now.
What I know its how imense the world's enigma is.
However, when people thought the sun was the one spinning around earth and not the other way round, they would feel important, but they were fearfull. Fearfull that God was watching them and would punish them at any moment, in lifetime or in death. Now, we don't beleive anymore in a God that watches us, we just beleive in the unequivocal order of the Universe. What makes us even smaller, right? But also makes us more free. Atoms, little stubborn atoms we are. Pursuing every single thing we want, every single feeling we have.. we gave us this freedom because there is anything more free than a bacteria. But a lovely one. A bacteria that falls in love, a bacteria that recist poems, a bacteria who cries and grieves, a bacteria that creats stories. We are a poetic bacteria. But still, a bacteria.
If sun doesn't spin around us, if the pyramids were built by aliens, or something not necessarilly green, if Jesus was never born and Shakespeare never wrote a single word, who are we, then? Because we are so used to creat ourselfs through the things we learn and through the things people say we should do, say and.. definitilly, be.. if anything of the things we learned are true, who are we then?
Little stubborn atoms. Maybe we should cease, to cease beleiving that everything we are is what we are, and born to be, when, perhaps, it is just a story we created, and to know that everything we want it's just a whim that we increased by living in a fictional order and not exactly something that was destined for us. We are incredibly spoiled. We are incredibly demanding. And then we cry because we didn't get what we wanted. But we cry even more because we feel it is "unfair" not getting what we wanted. And we cry the triple because we feel embareced, embareced to admit to other poeple that we did't get it. Maybe, taking off these two last 'offenses' we would actually be much more happier, getting or not that thing we so much wanted. We live a story. And stories should be exciting for us and, mostly, for those who watch from outside the story. Sometimes we really do want to delight ourselfs, but most of the times we just need to delight someone else. We need to make our story valid before third eyes.
But we are nothing more than little stubborn atoms full of poetry living a story. Lots of stories... indeed. Fiction.
But the same way we will die if earth stops spinning around the sun, our soul will wrinkle if we stop dreaming and creating, no matter how deluded we are.

How languages change everything

Today I am going to write in english.
For two reasons: first because I am living in London, and now I have more friends who don't understand portuguese than ever, second because the subject of this text is actually this: how languages change the way people see you.
As a portuguese person, I am fluent in portuguese. I am used to have all sort of words in my lexico to say and demonstrate whatever I want to tell. And things go fluently whithout thinking to much or having to chase words to explain what I want to explain. Basicly I am able to be more the real me.
Because no matter how fluent I am in my English, I always feel there are millions of unknow words still to know. And no matter the millions words I know already, I will always be speaking a language that is not mine.
Now a days I feel I am not talking with my heart but with my brain. I am feeling like a "Mercedes" that became a "Fiat Uno", from running and working fast to a slow processing. Spontaneity become hard.
The way you say something funny in Portuguese, will never be so funny in English, because in your mother language it has a different result than if you just say it in other language. In English, you also have many different ways to say something in a funny way, but you just don't know how. And if you know how and everybody laughs, it doesn't sound so funny to yourself anyway, because is not your language, it's not as you firstly thought it, and because you probably spent twice of the energy to tell that funny something than the energy you would spend if you were speaking your natural idiom. It is a mistake to think that literal translations work, because the majority of times.. they don't. Start getting used to "yellow smiles".
So, the problem is not the English itslef. I lived almost two years in Barcelona and I learned Spanish also. But even Spanish being so much more similar to Portuguese than English is, I remember feeling out of my heart the same way.
I had became someone I am not, or maybe I am the same person, just not so easy to know, but definitly reactions are different.

E o povo, pá!?

Todos os dias acordo com a sensação de que não percebo nada de política, que não sei nada sobre os partidos, não entendo nada de finanças e muito menos poderia ser primeira-ministra sem ser corrida de lá a pontapé.
Mas todos os dias acordo com a sensação de que algo muito estranho se passa aqui. E o povo, pá?