Smell of caramel

Everything has begun in that cold morning, when the Sun painted the city of orange and filled my day of heat and light.

That Tuesday could be like the previous days: boring! But it was not. And it had the ingredients for such a thing. Sleeping just three hours in order to get medical examination in a public health center with a shit pot inside the backpack, as well as the cold of the fall could have made the day harder.

A lot of people complain of waking up early. It is not very pleasant having to wake up, leaving the heat of the bed to face the cold and all the annoying situations at work and a possible morning traffic jam indeed. The morning period can make all the difference during the rest of the day. It is the prettiest period of the day of all.

When the Sun rose and illuminated little by little the cars of the federal highway, the billboards and facades of the stores with its tones of orange, more vivid and intense every minute, filling the city of life, it was foreseen that the day was going to be good. The confirmation came when Andrea Corr started to sing “Tinseltown In The Rain” on my mind. Thank you, Andrea.

Some people can be so close, but so far from others. And one of them was on the other side of the highway. I reminded him when I was coming and I saw the red with white waves logo. And he has been figuring my thoughts every day since I met him – virtually. Obviously, he might have no idea of it. I wondered of what he could be doing but, mainly, what he was feeling.

Loving is a very good feeling, the best one person can ever feel. The pain on loving and do not be loved is proportionally inverse. Time is a bitter medicine and it is not in small glass vials, but in barrels. It was not love, it was not. It was not love, it was a trap. A sadistic smile upon the face of the one who had the heart broken by the beloved one. The affection object now was also suffering the pain of loving and not being loved. He focused in the wrong one and ignored that one who could be the right one. It serves you right!

It was not a brilliant day, but it was a nice day. And deserved. After weeks of stress at work, finger slashes, oral mucosa slashes and food reservations, and the committal days to put the things in order, a happy day was more than deserved.

The smell of caramel was somewhere in the room. Or was it steeped on the cloak? The laugh came easily, even in the presence of crabby people. The reflexions too and the sureness that those Tuesday was being a happy day, without the need of being perfect. The things flew as if I had drunk a dose of Felix Felicis.

Just like love, happiness is a feeling so nice that it does not matter if it is true or not. There is no space for fears and doubts when a person feels that. He only wants to feel it and make it last forever, if possible.

Everything has begun in that cold morning, when the Sun painted the city of orange and filled my day of heat and light.

The poet

Love is not for the weak ones.

What goes around, comes around. The poet, even with his wonderful speech, his sweet and irresistible words, his big heart full of love, sleeps in the sink, sleeps in the bench of the square, sleeps alone. The fact of you knowing something deeply, does not mean that you worth it or really know it, or want it.

Love is not for the weak ones. The poet does not know what he wants. He wants to be loved, but he does not allow himself to love. He writes poetry on the restrooms doors, reads Sabrina, reads Twilight, watches chick flicks movies, listens to romantic songs, he collects love letters. He is graduated, post-graduated, master, doctor, postdoc in Love Science. But he has never experienced it

The poet is an emotional homicide, perhaps a serial-killer and a suicide as well, why not? Poor are those hearts that fell in love with him, got hurt and tried a second, third, forth, fifth chance to the poet to love them. Oh, but the poet is superior, too intolerant, too proud, too inflexible. No one is at his level.

Who loses in love game? Who loses in the divination game? Who can read the poet mind and enunciate all that he wants you to say to him, all he expects you to do? In order to love the poet, you have be his dreamboat riding a white horse.

What's up, poet, have you been kissing lots of frogs? Frogs that hurt you when they play with your heart, just like you did with those who loved you and were forlorn? Oh, my God! You were cheated and became a Horned Frog? Cry, poet, cry. Love has passed so many times by you and you always rejected it due to your fear, pride, intolerance. His superior love only brought you insomnia, worthless lessons, unnecessary scars and your everlasting loneliness.

Yes, poet, you are losing people, closing doors, locking yourself inside your SHU and throwing the keys out under the door. While you go crazy because of your never achieved love, people your hurt thank to God you kicked out them from your sad life. You avoided them from more unnecessary scars, from a confusing and worthlessly painful. They do not run the risk of suffering for someone who was too low of your emotional extent, of loving someone who knew too much about love in theory and nothing about love in practice.

NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS - O Children

Cancer

What really kills us is the cancer.

The doctors can declare us dead whatever they want, but what really kills us is the cancer. There is no way to escape from this disease, we are exposed to it since our very first day of life. It is unavoidable because we live with humans... there is not another creature as carcinogen as this one.

Researches show that the most severe cases of cancer occurs in areas where there is a huge spiritual misery concentration, a reflexion of the other cases of misery. However, those who are most likely to suffer its symptoms are those who have a better intellectual development, once they notice that their intelligence does not help much either themselves or the others.

The core of our society has a malevolent tumor that has been mowing the life of a lot of people. The spiritual death comes before the body death, people are just zombies. The familiar institution does not exist since a long time, except for few families where love and moral values bright as lightning bugs on the farm. Home violence, children defying their parents, parents that do not respect themselves. Alcoholism, drugs, prostitution, early pregnancy, toss off marriage. No family can be strong this way.

At traffic, either inside your car or inside a public mean of transportation, we feel so much anger that our hairs fall down. It is not baldness, it is not a fallout due to chemotherapy, it is just this fucking cancer. Traffic jam, mad people of the evening. The idiots give us a show of lack of respect when they sit on two seats, the seat provided to the elderly, when they want to share their musical bad taste through the cell phone, or when they make the jam as stressful as it already is by honking excessively.

Children learn at school that most of them will have no future and that they will be at the bottom of the social inequality pyramid. We learn how to read and write, the government want us to be stupids, so everything can remain the way it is, where the rich men keep rich and poor men keep being poor. What a wonderful world.

Let's drink our cyanide juice. Let's cheer the death. Viva Jim Jones! Viva the religious bigotry. Viva the hate, the prejudice, the sadism, the tragedy, the dishonesty, the never-stopping criticism.

It is not necessary to be ran over by a drunk driver, to be stabbed by your husband, to have a head shot, to suffer due to cirrhosis or have a heart attack and agonize in a hospital corridor to die. We are already died since a long time, we are zombies. What really kills us is this cancer, it is having no choice but live together with these less intelligent suicides that want to take us with them. It is the cancer that kills us day buy day, little by little, slow and painfully...

The obvious non-proved

If I could foresee the outcome of the obvious non-proved, I would get less stressed than the usual.

No dog barking, no child crying, no woman yelling. There is peace at 4am and ideas take shape when the lead pencil slides on the paper without so many interruptions caused by hesitations.

The boy wanted to be an astronaut when he grew up. He did grow up and he was not a boy anymore but not yet a man. In an ordinary day, he was noticed about a voyage to the Moon by Twitter. He decided to know more about, to let the organizers know, showing he was interested.

In the begging, his e-mails used to be answered but after some time, he stayed in the vacuum – not in the vacuum of the Space. The inbox remained empty. One month later, when researching about this promotion over Google, he found out that the space shuttle had already gone. He felt two different feelings at the same time: relief of finally knowing the outcome of the promotion, but unhappiness of not being selected.

Since then, his head, that had already been busy with anxiety due to not have any reply during this one month, reserved some space to more doubts enemies of the peace of spirit: where did I go wrong? Have I lost so many time beating around the bush due to my necessity of having the total control of the things? Should I had gone straight to the point? Was not me good enough for the voyage? Was not the voyage good enough for me?

Now he could only theorize. What if...? Perhaps... Ellipsis... Perhaps this was not the time and I should wait for one more opportunity... opportunity that does not appear any time. Perhaps it would have been better and I would have spared myself from something unpleasant. Perhaps I did lose the chance of stepping on the Moon, and check if it is made of cheese. Emmental or gruyère?

Now the space shuttle had already gone and all the man-boy could do was to accept the facts and choose to either chew his doubts or swallow them at all. Perhaps the voyage was one more of his desires, but are a necessity and a desire just frivolous wishes? Perhaps the crew of the shuttle will have a unique, wonderful, unforgettable experience and the man who wished to become an astronaut will never have. Or perhaps they are going to meet the Death by being devoured by the Sun.

If I could foresee the outcome of the obvious non-proved, I would get less stressed than the usual.

Chicken pox

There is the wish of understanding... or shutting up.

It was not a metaphor. It was just a narrative of how is being sick. Narrating the fact is something mechanical. Metaphors exercise the brain, develop creativity, instigate curiosity. The implicit can be more exciting than the explicit.

Writing relieves. It is a way to get rid of what makes us restive. A lot of times it helps more than a transparent conversation. We talk to ourselves. We are not naive to believe that an agreement head move means that there is empathy or total comprehension. There is the wish of understanding... or shutting up. It is a monologue and only us are those who can understand it.

Screaming is unhelpful because everybody screams at the same time than you. When you throw a flare to the sky, you get disappoint when you know you have done this on January 1st at the midnight. There is a hope that someone notices your S.O.S. signal within the tsunami of egocentric and worthless information. Do not count on it.

We should be sleeping, we have an appointment tomorrow morning, but we are here hearing about a horse race on snow at BandNews while we write. The stomach complains of hungry. We neither have the desire of sleeping nor the worry of being tired all day long. We do not have the desire of waking up when we are sleeping as well.

There are some things we do not like to talk about, neither to show, but we would like people to notice them. Once more anxiety drives us to bad mood. We are waiting for an answer that never comes. We are wondering about what they really want and why that person who used to be kind, polite and receptive turned into a mute one who ignores our presence.

It will not last forever, we know. The slash on my finger will heal itself and the stress will die down. We are begging some respect and attention just like everybody. We want to get rid from this evil-minded people. We want our freedom, time and friends back. We want to feel the heat of the Sun, the wind, the rain, the cold again. We want to live one more time and feel sincerely happy. Where is that smile that used to be upon our faces?

THE SMITHS - How Soon Is Now