I wonder

What if I wished really strongly

that this small piece of wonder

could transform into something more?

What if I was afraid

that I’m rushing ideas,

that my dreams are just fears

and I will be alone again?

What if I felt this is unfair,

that she should be aware,

but not enforced into accepting it?

What if she has her own dreams

barely involving me,

and here am I, creating this whole scene

as if I’m the director.

What if I’m just scared

of being unaware, of being unprepared.

What if this is just me sabotaging myself again?

I wonder if this dream can even exist,

or is just an illusion again

to tell me all is better

when it ain’t.

Passion is out of my dictionary,

but here am I wondering,

as if it can just be created,

as if I can just feel it.

As if she would feel it too.

What if it all works well,

with me one day grinning

from side to side,

reading this to another smile,

while I stroke her hair?

What if she is unaware,

but not unwilling to be there

for this deluded dream of mine?

Should I phase this out as just an illusion,

or should I dream knowing it can happen?

Should I stop of hopefully write,

or hope the written words will take life

... and fly?

My Teatrical Disaster

 My head goes places.

It rounds on itself,

tries to control the controlling of it.

"I need to control myself less, leave it be and stop worrying"

"I need to control more to actually participate in my own life when I'm better"

Well, I'm not better

I'm not worse either.

Tired maybe.

But all my head thinks is disaster.

All my mind goes is to drowning.

The day you love someone and try it.

Everything will come only to implode on you.

Everyone will come only to judge you.

No one is looking, but if they do

they will check the trash you see in the mirror too.

Or the day that you'll try to get the dream job

oh, one of those big ones, childhood said and set in stones.

You anxiety will come to stop, your performance certainly will drop.

And you know.

This is all in your head.

All of these demons should be already dead.

But they are not.

They are here, they are there.

when I look it's everywhere.

Inner or not. Demon or not.

Sorry, am I crying too much?

Expecting too much?

What should I expect?

What should I think to be ok with myself?

It's like I said before

internal disaster, nothing functions.

the knots are formed in my thoughts

I'm not really clear what is true

and what is not.

But in the meantime,

my mind goes places

I rather forget.

Time's Arrow Only Marches Forward

 It's not art if it just comes out of fear is it?

It's just the demons speaking.

They tell me that's useless,

that I'm powerless,

I lack of any effort

or letter.

yet...

the weights in my hands...

prevent me from writing what I have to say...

..keep me from saying what I want to write.

They don't allow me to think

because when I do,

it's all blur lines in the dark,

it's all past tense,

it's all disaster ahead.

It's myself dead,

it's myself sad.

It's the fear to write

with the courage to admit the fear you have.

But is it really that brave?

If all I do is think without direction?

Breathe without conviction?

Laugh without substance, cry without being convincingly hurt.

It's all hurt,

it's all dirt.

It's yet another text,

another round for the fighter.

It's yet another instance

where feeling lost meets the writer.

Snapshot: Teletransporting feelings

He wakes up, looks ahead while slowly opening his child eyes.

He slept in the couch again. It's 9:30pm.

"Oh, I guess it's still not time", said to himself, while having headaches due to oversleeping on boredom.

The soap opera starts again, it's the third of the night, and he is following all of them.

He immerses in the world of the TV again, sitting in the corner of the sofa, with the curtains closed due to the darkness outside. He is way too close to the TV.

And the travel begins.

- I'm here for you, Jessica. "Oh wait, he's not supposed to say this, it's betrayal".
- So you mean you forgot Melissa completely? "No he did not! I mean, cmon, that barely makes sense!".

He is getting mad, screaming at the TV.

- Yes, I have nothing to do with her anymore. She is gone for good. "What do you mean she is gone for good?".
- What do you mean she is gone for good? "Yes..."
- I killed her. "Oh no, fuck this shit".

He shuts off the TV.

Silence.

He experiences the silence while pressing his hands shut as strong as he can do. He is angry, way too angry for something so silly as a plot from a TV show.

He stops. Silence again. He starts crying. He doesn't know why.

"It's so stupid" - he says while tears were still coming out of his eyes. "Why do I care about this so much? It's just a dumb TV show". His 11th years old mind thinks loudly to himself.

Runs to the bathroom, water to eyes, look in the mirror. "Your sad ugly face". Towel.

Calm. Silence again. Way more silence than ever before.

"Why am I like this?".

No one answers. He looks in the clock, still 10pm. 

"One more hour and they will be here."

Turns on the TV.

Endscene.

My Anxiety

All these things I can think,
going through my memory.
All these things I can think,
driving me to insanity.

All these moments I can feel,
needling through my skin.
All this hate I expel,
knowing you can tell.

I'm not living through my life.
I'm just crying over motives.
I'm not feeling my own mind.
Just a very emotive leaf
flying towards...
nothing.

Really nothing,
not even an entire verse.
Not even a rhyme.

Suffocated, nauseated, demotivated.
Depressive, repressive, unimpressed.
Loveless, motionless, lifeless.

Why don't you just suck it up?
Wake it up, shake it up,
break your own vices,
break you own world.
Why don't you just stop crying?
Why does everything you do
makes you wanna puke?

Why does every feeling needs to be an action?
Why does every action cause so intense feelings?
Why your own mind doesn't stop thinking about it?
Stressing about it, working about it.
Writing about it.
In disconnected ways.

Why your world inside makes you not enjoy the one outside?

Collection of Unfinished Thoughts on Someone

I miss the way I looked at you, and the excitement I had when going to see you.
Miss being silly together, with that old you, when we didn't care about anything or anyone,
wanting just having the most time with each other.

It was such a beautiful romance, really...
Such a shame we wasted, I mean, at least in my mind.
So many moments we would have, good, together, if we weren't so changed.
But that's the thing. We were changed.

Life made us make choices, choices that distanced ourselves from being any sort of story.
I was past to you. You were pain to me.
And today, years after everything, my heart has no feelings towards you.
In fact I haven't thought of you in a while.
But my mind is too silent at this point.
I haven't really thought of anything.
I haven't really thought of anyone.
Didn't fall in love either.
And I'm scared of this.

I'm scared of being permanently blocked of feelings.
Worst, blocked of connections.
I know no one new;
pass through whole conversations without absorbing or paying attention.
So, thinking about the way I looked at you when I was absorbing and feeling something
made me feel something.
Not to you, or for you.
For me, I felt excited by that idea again.
Of having someone to look at the way I did so many years ago.
But, as nothing is as easy as it can be, I don't know how to.
Ruminating constantly of what others think of me.
Which is stupid, I know, but understanding something doesn't make you believe it.

With that in mind, thing is, what if I was the bad guy in all of this?
What if I'm the only one to blame for being alone and having no soul to talk to?
What if I was the one that made you not love me anymore?
What if I find someone else, and I do all the mistakes over again?
Mistakes that I didn't know at the time.
Please no! I'm too tired.
Too tired to try again.
And too scared to confront myself over doing so.

This whole time the text was not for you.
Was my, stuffed with unfinished thoughts, mind.
Going into places it usually blocks.

Talking to you because I miss the old you, though.
That was a lovely person to be with.

High and Low

The man wakes up.

He expects the bright morning to tell him something, a date, a reason to get up, a smile lost in the deep parts of his mind. He cannot find anything.

He gets high to avoid his low, he gets low and prevent his highs. Nothing seems balanced in his world, even though it's just a picture of the map. That's his map, describing every single location with a tone of grey in them, not completely dark, but not enough to see anything or anyone. It is, in its current state, an useless map. He knows that. He deeply resents himself for it.

But that is just a map, and worse, just a picture of it printed out on those older matrix printers, making huge noises while printing. The map is not the man, nor it is the territory. He should just use a different map.

He takes a sip on his coffee. All of those metaphors making him feel lost on that grey-ish incomplete map of his. This isn't helpful. He sips his coffee again. Caffeine might help.

- How can you change when you spent your whole life using your wrong, incomplete and torn off map? - He asks himself.

The man doesn't know.

Goes back to his place, finding himself in between the rain and the really confusing dark clouds. "That's progress!", the man tells himself, but hardly believing it.

He eats, the food doesn't taste like anything. He watches, the distraction helps at first, but he gets bored before the night ends. His demons make their daily appearance. He lies in bed.

- Hopefully the morning tells me something tomorrow.