I used to have a soul but the again, I might be wrong.
I might have confused it with something else I wanted, maybe less, maybe more.
I believe I had a soul, not so long ago.
I now believe - no more.
I sink and shift towards despair, holding for dear life.
I have my memories of a soul, but they do not suffice.
I dream of a soul to call my own, but then again, I could be mistaken.
I wished upon a soul, but I could be mislead.
For I don't know, what a soul desires.
Surely not my lack of place to give him or her, do souls have preference?
Mistaken, I was, thinking I had a soul.
What of a soul, you asked, bitterly, wondering why it's important?
Important, I feel, is to have some thoughts of souls, maybe not a soul itself.
But then again, what came first, the thought or the soul itself?

Slipping into the images that sweetly rush past, it is easy to let go of your our personality and body.

You are what you see, in a sense. And when your eyes focus not on your arms, as you touch things and as you make tea, carefully heating the water, and pouring in the lemon juice. No longer do your eyes focus on the movement of your legs and toes, far way in the distance that is height, as you read a book. No longer do they focus on your surroundings, unable to get of glimpse of your identity, but externally directed, always facing the outside, never the internal forces that move the mountain.

Are you your eyes or your soul? Are you the voice in your head, the little devil on your shoulders, or are you the mass, the red and pink mass that occupies space and forms matter, seen by the naked eye, that moves and shifts, that gets your mind around? Because, the body, it has no eyes and no imagination. It simply takes in and responds, it does not create.

So, you are your eyes.

You are the things you see.

such lack of words, unseen before.
once flowed so freely, now slip comatose.
and the rhetoric and the art of images in written words,
now abhorrent and transparent, with no meaning,
just ethic.

Olá, e deixa-me que te diga, este não é um bom começo. Esta carta não sai fluída e as minhas palavras estão destreinadas, cansadas, sentadas no canto da minha mente, e no fundo dos meus dedos, reticentes e medrosas de saírem e viverem. Viverem como quem diz, estão tão vivas como a tua atenção, e ambos sabemos que essa variante onde nunca foi o teu forte, nem o meu privilegio. Os barulhos começaram a ficar mais fortes, e as luzes cegam-me cada vez mais. Tantas vozes, acho que nunca soube bem como explicar, mas são tantas as vozes. São tantos os sons que vou ouvindo, a medida que o resto do mundo se começa a apagar, e os meus olhos começam a parecer cada vez mais pesados. É diferente daquela sensação de sono, de não resistires a fechar os olhos por uns minutos, é completamente diferente, um pouco mais resistível, mas nunca tão agradável. Nunca é tão agradável, acho eu. Não me lembro que alguma vez tenha sido. Não te sei explicar, percebes? Parece que os meus olhos estão a tornar-se cada vez mais grossos, mais pesados. Começam a entrar na minha cara, esmagar o meu crânio, criando grossos papos debaixo dos meus olhos. É uma sensação curiosa. Percebes? Não sei se percebes. Tu nunca percebes nada. ÉS feito de um conjunto de quase-cheios e de vazios inexplicáveis. As vexes parece que encontrei em ti uma espécie de personalidade, que vi nos teus olhos uma luz de criação. Que tens algo ai, mas depois... Que acontece depois? Conta-me, por favor. É uma espécie de desespero vazio. Morres por dentro, é tão, tão frustrante. És tão pequeno, tão pequeno, e insignificante. Tão ridículo.

As vezes dás me vontade de rir. Mesmo. É um certo ar ridículo que tu tens. Com esses desespero todo a borbulhar dentro de ti. És como um quadro de dramas.

This is what failure looks like. This is what failure feels like. The process of letting the slippery slop of head banging against the wall, that's what failure feels like. That feeling of full emptiness, of ridiculous anger, against everything. Can't be helped, it just can't be helped. Being always so fucking angry at everything. Angry at all the others around, because they can't match up. Nothing matches up, no one, nothing is ever good enough. Just everything failing at once. Because I'm failing, and failing again, and I can't even begin to explain it, because I don't know how to. How do I fucking explain this? I can't even understand it, it doesn't ever make any sort of small sense in my own mind. My own, small, failing mind. The roads off it are just crumbling at the civil war, and nothing is matching up. No words.

People tend to lose interest in things in a very quick fashion. I do not feel it happens on purpose, but it just fucking happens. Things grow old. And you are then, faced with a choice. You can sit in that white room of despair and anger, being pushed around by what people want, what you wish for and what life seemingly gives you, and just decay, under the pressure, the vomit in your throat and everything just crumbling, as you pretend to be a happy little camper, smiling along side all the other fuckheads and morons that you think are your friends and lovers. Or you can, you know, grow a pair of balls and some backbone and actually do something. And by something I don't mean to go out and drink, to go and watch movies until your mind is numb and you finally escape from the reality and the pressure. No, what I mean by something is getting up and actually allowing yourself to change. Accepting that fact that you will not be this young again, and that you need to either do something now, or you will eventually have nothing more then air to waste and space to destroy. Things are not like in the movies. Nothing and no one will save you, and sometimes, not even you will be able to save yourself. It is a ridiculous statement, but it is also a personal truth. No one is willing to give a fuck after a certain point, and you will probably make the ones who are willing to bend for you, hate you in the very end. You must, it is imperative that you accept this fact: the ones you love will hate you eventually. Because they love you. And you destroy everything you love. Well, now that that is out of the way, let's continue. You're a fucking waste of space, and nothing you ever do will be as good as you want it to be. This doesn't mean people think this about you, this is just what you think of yourself. You hate the world and the world could care less about you. It doesn't even know you exist, you are just a blemish, a tiny blemish in it's millions of years and people. You are fucking irrelevant. Nobody cares. And why should this be a bad thing? Grow a backbone. Do something. Don't wait around for people to decide things for you. Independence is not sitting on someone's lap and saying yes, because you don't care. Not caring is not independence. It's a mind numbing illness, not caring. It makes you boring and a push over. Be a sheep all you want, if you're not going to care. What does it matter? You're just going to do whatever you're told, anyway. Because you don't care. Because not caring is just easier, less active. You fucking little twat, you fucking little shithead. Care. For fuck's sake, care! Care that the world is dying, care that you don't know what to do, don't just fucking sink. Don't sink, don't sink, don't sink. You need air and the pressure of your veins beating in your pulse. The price for not caring are chains and the price of caring is despair. Choose well.

Estou um bocado farta do mundo.
Vá, não comeces com olhares de saloio, não me olhes com desdém, não me digas que sou apenas (melo)dramática, e que tenho mania de que todo o mundo me odeia. O mundo não me odeia, nem me ama, nem coisa nenhuma, e eu não sou dramática. Pelo menos, não sou muito. Vá, apenas algumas veias e artérias, que decidem que o meu sangue deve correr de forma teatral, como nos filmes, em câmara lenta, enquanto me exalto. Mas estava eu a dizer, eu estou a ficar exausta de ver o mundo. O mundo e as pessoas que com ele vem. Não as pessoas que me acompanham, que se sentam comigo na plateia, mas sim das pessoas que pelo palco caminham, entram e saem, e que me deixam cansada e sem sinapses e biológiquices afins.