Gustav

Mahler plays.

Well, not Mahler, but his symphony.

Birds fly by my window and the sky is so beautifully blue.

I sit on the floor. 

This is just too much to be felt on a soft surface. The piano plays harder. I get softer. Within myself lie all of the unanswered questions the world has ever asked. 

Hey, how are you managing so much pain?

The music. The music makes my heart smile through it. It's hurting, yes.. Every step of the way. Not gonna lie. But it's a pain that I have to feel. I need to feel all of this. So I can eventually walk away from it.

No, walking away is not possible. You know too much, baby. And you just love to feel everything so deeply. You need it. You crave it. You're not yourself without it. 

Oh, how I wish I could help you get through it. Clear up all of your thoughts. Scrub away all of the pain they caused. Put a bit of make-up over all of the scars. 

Go. Pour yourself another glass of wine. It's fine. Eitherway, you're a great kisser. 

The symphony keeps playing. You keep on feeling every stroke of the piano deep inside of your skin. You're happy.

It hurts.

After all of this... You will have grown a bit more, get to know yourself a little bit better and maybe, just maybe, it won't hurt as much as before. 

Avisa-me quando chegares a casa

Não foi só uma palavra. 

Foram muitas as palavras trocadas.

Palavras trocam-se.

Alguém forma uma ideia sobre ti e sobre mim. 

Uma ideia apenas. 

É difícil dar a conhecer todos os enredos que nos transformaram naquilo que somos.

É difícil explicar os eventos que foram dando forma às nossas ideias, às nossas manias, aos nossos medos.

Apesar de tudo, vamos tentando.

Vamos trocando enredos uns com uns outros.

Vamo-nos identificando com histórias e ideias. 

Vamo-nos aproximando ou afastando de alguém.  

Vamos pedindo para nos avisarem quando chegarem a casa com a esperança que um dia a frase se faça sentir cá dentro e se faça sentir na outra pessoa. 

Já pedi para me avisarem. Já me pediram a mim para avisar. 

Ainda não percebi quando te vou pedir a ti.

The dance

The moon hit the sky,

and way before that,

you were already in it. 

You could blame alcohol. 

You won't, darling.

You blame the eyes and the smiles.

The laughs and the spilled glasses. 

The unlocking of hearts.

The shared darkness. 

The unsaid parts.

You blame the silence and the words written on paper.

The cooking and the playlists, the singing and the banter.

The immediate presence that left worries or plans for later. 

You blame the hours turning to past,

you blame the clock you didn't mind spinning.

The stories of designs scratched on the skin 

and the tales that tattoed your hearts from the very beginning. 

You blame the lips, the kisses, the touch.

The desperation voiced in a whisper.

The remarkable absence of decency, 

and the longing for, just one more, round of twister. 

You blame the forced rhymes and even the unforced ones too, 

you try to blame something. 

It seems like the right thing to do. 

But you know what?

You can't blame flow and life is flux. 

Get high on every moment, feel every rush. 

The heartbeats, as you go, will light up the way,

as long as you feel them, know all is okay. 

Watch the moon, little girl, long for the boy watching it too,

you're not weak for that, you're just being you.

The path may be wild, but it's fine, my darling. 

One day, all the answers, in it, you will find.

"Bola de Berlim é um bolo maravilhoso"

 Really...?