Posts Tagged ‘memories’



i am feeling very nostalgic today.
i haven’t really been sleeping well,
i know.
my brain waves
are on the fry.

i’m exhausted
but can’t close my eyes,
can’t sleep.

i’m restless.

and i can’t write, really.
all the words are stuck
in my throat,
sentences jumbled
and scattered around my brain.

temporary aphasia;
i open my mouth
but nothing comes out of it.

i just gasp,
and gasp,
blowing bubbles like a fish.

i stare at my pencil,
at my notebook,
and start to believe that
i no longer know how to write.

but here i am,
trying, at least,
staring at my cursor,
pressing down the keys
(backspace after backspace
after backspace).

so i look at old pictures
as a way to inspire me.
some are
old pictures from an old me
that i don’t recognize:

another person
that was not so bad,
and not so good,
but important to get to be
where and
who we are now.

and also old pictures
of beloved people
that i lost,
or that i had to leave behind.

this’ the greatest growing pain
of my life:
cutting ties
with great loves
that i protected
and never regretted
but that i could
no longer live by
their side.

as usually,
was the price paid…

as sure as ice melts,
we all did,
at some point,
build things
only so they could fall apart,
kept people
in a glass
to protect them
only so they could flee
away, straight into harm.

never saying a single thanks,
but oh well.
they are not obliged to, really.

this is normal,
and healthy,
for no person is ours really,
to have
and to keep.

they are theirs
to make their own choices,
and it’s not your job
to try and live their lives for them.

i’m coming to peace with it.

and i am not sad,
about it,
about anything really.
i’m just mindful.

i can’t dream,
i can’t rest,
but i am alive,
i am here,
and will be
for another sunrise.


senses #3 – touch


when I was a child, I collected the strangest things. a million objects, from the normal to the unimaginable, with a health dose of improbable. I collected fragments and trinkets, everything delightful to the touch, rugged and smooth, what I could have and hold, grab, feel the edges dig into the palms… pretty much all that could be carried all over town inside my pockets.

my selection was more physically selective than emotional. I didn’t carry a photo locket on a necklace, nor a memorabilia keychain… i’d prefer weight over sentiment, and carried things that would remind me constantly that they were solid, heavy and there. I carried with me shards and shrapnel of the world: screws, sleek river rocks, sticks. at the age of 13, a bullet i’ve found in the gutter. emotionless things, but not meaningless (nor, to me, useless). I curated a simple misfit collection of broken things nobody wanted, but that had, once in the past, had their own importance.

nowadays, i must confess I’ve emptied my pockets. adult practicality goes against carrying heavy garbage among the lint of pockets. age also seems to have killed the pleasure of touch in favor of the imagetic delight of a memory. so I carry other things, images, immemorial touches:

I collect the breath in my neck,
the coffee foam in the cup,
the salt of the sea on my hands,
laugh lines and crow’s feet,
some abandonment issues, here and there.

in a way, everything that appeases not to the skin, but to eye of the mind.

i wonder when this will go away


you don’t know
how it goes
on the other side.
how your smiles
are ropes
that tie tight
around my heart:

when you talk,
the strings tauten
compressing, and clenching
until my breath leaves me.

sweet, delicious
in my chest.

and, when you speak
I am reminded
of past scenes
between you and me
(and the phantoms of the kisses
we traded in a time far, far away).

in a mix of memory and dream
I am once again
pulled in.

these memories are
like a tide
that carry my body
into the water.

how did the kissing feel to you?

to me, it felt wet
and warm
and everywhere:
like drowning in the sea
while it rains.

age: 28


it’s in the darkest hour

(under the cover of routine
of four o’clock in the afternoon,
in the middle of my shift
at the office-
that point when I feel
there is nothing before or after,
just me, crunching numbers,
cold coffee
and spreadsheets-
on a Wednesday)

that I, at random, remember:

you, in a black jacket,
poised like a pale bird
under the glow of the streetlight,
“I come bearing gifts”
and handing me a beer
as I rested my forehead
on your belly
and embraced
your midriff in my arms.

and as fast as it comes
it goes-
the spark of memory.

on the go 6


It is my last day here and it is a bittersweet feeling: so anxious to shower and sleep in my own home but also dreading so much the fact that I have to leave. it is not so much separation anxiety, or deep melancholy nor terrible yearning because that this city is so great – it is pretty good, but Ive seen/imagined better – but more the call back to reality; this is what that frightens me, that curbs the enthusiasm. it is the routine that awaits and pulls my leash, this is what scares and depresses, it is what drags me back to a world where I have to be a person who answers to a name, that must speak and hear, and be functional in a job, exist as a social security number… this is the really sad part of the goodbye, the real drag at the arrival. this is what I can expect. but I won’t fret. I have to face it. so my bags are early packed and I am tired, but not sleepy. I am ready. Here. A bit too wired, suffering from insomnia, thinking about the plane and money and everything. But ready to leave.

Also, my health haven’t been so great as well, so I’ll be glad to see this go. My lips are so chapped it is like they are crackled leather. But I won’t fret this too. I’ll face it as well, the cold, the streets, the hunger, the uneasiness. So I turn a corner and other corner, waiting to spend my last few dollars in something that will remind me of here, that I will cherish as a token of a good time. And, as I window-shop and look and touch articles on every tourist place, I see them, across the street from me: waiters crossing the asphalt in their white aprons, tray in hand, a cup of warm coffee atop of white china. In fact, it is not the first time I seem them… there they go, busy, delivery boys just out of the kitchen, sweating because of the vapors of boiling water and of the effort, zigzagging their ways among the crowds to deliver, in silver platters, the city’s favorite drink: coffee. it is actually a beautiful ballet – the swan waiters crossing and crossing, balancing spoons and sugar packets and little coffee pots amidst the insane traffic, the horns, the Vespas to please a waiting customer, to serve better, faster, harder, stronger. eager to please. unless, of course, you hit one of them. then, magic will be broken and harsh, unintelligible words will come out of their mouths and things will go sour in a minute.

they go. lots of things go, as well as a few hours. so I search for a way and a place and a world to kill the couple of hours left, pass this time. I decide to have lunch on a bench – a departing, impromptu picnic under a big, tall tree – loiter around the park. life is busy around me, and school kids yell and businessmen smoke outside glass buildings, and I live as they live, mind running a thousand miles per hour, trying not to inhale another mouthful of carbon dioxide. the world really spun around me, the city alive and busting with real people, not dumb tourists in awe, watching life from the camera lenses. I get mesmerized, while feeling a little silly and, for many moments, can only imagine the feelings of these real people and the understatement they have of their place of birth and living, if their current affairs, their mixed love and hate for this town. is it the same I have for mine? is it more intense, more raw or more soft? I can only wonder.

and soon it is time to go to airport, busy as a bee, strolling, having beers to pass out on the plane. there it goes, my last money, perfectly spent on an iced Quilmes. and, after what it seems like hours of being badly seated on uncomfortable plastic chairs, and after a million yawns and boarding calls, there I am, photographing the plane and the city, as the plane lifts off more and more and more, until everything is just a bunch of little unfocused lights in the middle of the black ocean. night rises and darkness falls upon us, and I take my last notes as midnight approaches and passengers, lulled by soft scribbling of my pen and by the gentle rocking of the plane, fall asleep. I, myself, cannot shut my eyes for a single moment. everything is expectation, is the flutter of the stomach upon the arrival home, the welcoming warm weather one can always expect from Rio.

I touch soil. I feel sad, and relieved. a little hungry too, as the airplane food is really terrible… but most of all, I feel rich. traveling will always do this, no matter how bad. I feel like I’ve learned and let myself be learned by a world unseen. I was out there, trying to understand (even though I’m pretty sure no one could see me).

and, well… even if it had really been all bad, there is always the cheap vodka at the free-shop.