- Would you still love me if I couldn't pay for dinner
- Maybe
sábado, 17 de janeiro de 2015
quinta-feira, 15 de janeiro de 2015
#60 oh on my own private world
The plan it wasn't much of a plan, still it was the best that I could find. I told you, it's not easy to make good plans on your own. Do you feel the same? I tried to make it as simple as possible, white on cardboard, a letter, a stamp, a work address, no signing, whatever will be will be. Minimalist.It was not easy. Blaize Pascal said "i wrote you this letter so long because I didn't have the time to make it shorter" and I had the time still I'd prefered to have written you a very long letter like I hope we can have very long conversations.
I know you don't exist. I know that people don't exist as I see them. You, my love, are made of pieces of Murakami, Ozu's movies and the shadows of the trees in a July afternoon by the river. You don't exist like this except in my mind, I know. It's not easy to live with my brain, you know? It builds parallel worlds all the time, plants small flowers, adds some smells and some particular light to make this terrible world more bareble. It has the soundtrack of my spotify, the poems I read when I was younger, it has landscaps of huge natural parks with waterfalls even when I'm on the crowded bus, there are dragonflies everywhere. You have the softest hands of the world and they want to hold mine, in my world. I read too many crazy books, saw too many cinema masterpieces, read phillosophers, plunged my harms into theories of beauty and reality it's a distance world that I sometimes see on my weak days and, to be honest, doesn't really attract me.
I know you don't exist. If you existed, you'd write me back, maybe text me - definitely. Or just hey there. But you don't exist and sometimes I wish the letter never finds you but on the other hand just knowing that there is some sweet love travelling around Europe makes me smile. I told you this before, didn't I, we are always selfish, we only do things for ourselves, and sending some love inside an envelope is something that I did for myself - nothing to loose, I can do it, I can kiss whoever I want, even if it's from the distance. If this was a book we'd meet and maybe it would be strange - are we having our ackward moment now, I'd ask you. Shall we order some wine? you'd smile and say no need for wine, it was never the wine.
oh the fucking expectations... maybe I should stop living daily life and spend my days inside my head. all the flowers the artic monckeys singing on the background, me sitting in my living room, eyes closed, cat on the lap, travelling only on the back of my mind, you could join me and if it didin't work out with you I'd just ordered another sweet boy. I could be happy with that.
I know you don't exist. I know that people don't exist as I see them. You, my love, are made of pieces of Murakami, Ozu's movies and the shadows of the trees in a July afternoon by the river. You don't exist like this except in my mind, I know. It's not easy to live with my brain, you know? It builds parallel worlds all the time, plants small flowers, adds some smells and some particular light to make this terrible world more bareble. It has the soundtrack of my spotify, the poems I read when I was younger, it has landscaps of huge natural parks with waterfalls even when I'm on the crowded bus, there are dragonflies everywhere. You have the softest hands of the world and they want to hold mine, in my world. I read too many crazy books, saw too many cinema masterpieces, read phillosophers, plunged my harms into theories of beauty and reality it's a distance world that I sometimes see on my weak days and, to be honest, doesn't really attract me.
I know you don't exist. If you existed, you'd write me back, maybe text me - definitely. Or just hey there. But you don't exist and sometimes I wish the letter never finds you but on the other hand just knowing that there is some sweet love travelling around Europe makes me smile. I told you this before, didn't I, we are always selfish, we only do things for ourselves, and sending some love inside an envelope is something that I did for myself - nothing to loose, I can do it, I can kiss whoever I want, even if it's from the distance. If this was a book we'd meet and maybe it would be strange - are we having our ackward moment now, I'd ask you. Shall we order some wine? you'd smile and say no need for wine, it was never the wine.
oh the fucking expectations... maybe I should stop living daily life and spend my days inside my head. all the flowers the artic monckeys singing on the background, me sitting in my living room, eyes closed, cat on the lap, travelling only on the back of my mind, you could join me and if it didin't work out with you I'd just ordered another sweet boy. I could be happy with that.
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