Places and memories

I never understood why we kept going there day after day. I don't think it was because we truly enjoyed the place. It was okay, not particularly great, but not bad either. I guess it was because of the meaning the most simple routines could have for us, since we were so desperately out of time to create everything a relationship is supposed to have - and routines are a tremendous part of it. Maybe that was it. Maybe we were just lazy, I don't know. The fact is, we kept returning, day after day, until we did return no more. That place, of all places in this city, was the one that reminded me of you the most. But no longer. That place is no more, it has ceased to be - and with it, went a significant part of our own memories.

Who is John Galt?

It took me an interesting discussion on political phylosophy (or something of the sort) with one of my best friends to fully understand how much I admire Ayn Rand's works and thoughts.

No title

Have I ever told you that I'm hopeless when it comes to write titles?

Murdered by numbers

Eighty-five, eighty-five, eighty-seven, seventy-six. The next number crashlanding on my life - and yes, this is a wild guess - will be eighty-three.

Untamed

I met you on the underground station. You were waiting for the train, just as everyone else there. It was crowded, the station; and yet my eyes could not help finding you amidst the sea of faces. There was something uncanny about you. Maybe it was the eighties' feel. I think it was your hair. It made me think of those unlikely movie stars of the eighties' movies. It was light brown, its thick curls dropping over your shoulders. Your shoulders, as your body, were pale and thin; your whole figure was so light that one would think oneself to be able to snap it between one's fingers as if it was a leafless autumn twig. It had a grace of its own though, and a power: hidden under your skin, revealing itself only in your arms and legs, tense as a stringbow, full of some unbound energy, released in every step you took - determined, knowing. But of you, what stroke me more intensely was your eyes. Wide and round, their gray irises permanentely startled, your eyes seemed restless, almost afraid, definitely untamed. Their gray was beautiful, and yet it was different - it wasn't that gray that every so-called writer describes as the gray of a sea under a storm. The was nothing of the sea in your eyes; their gray was a metallic one, and yet they were oddly alive. The was turmoil there, yes, but an earthly one, a wild one. Of all the girls I've met in the last year or so, I guess you were the most likely to be forgotten by anyone. And yet, if I remember all of them, none of them possessed a beauty as unique as yours.

n/g?

Just a thought: since all of a sudden everyone seems to want (sometimes to demand) an Apple's macbook, did everyone decided that it is actually better than a regular notebook and more suitable for their jobs and hobbies, or everyone just wants a macbook because it's "shiny"?

The truth about journals and blogs:

"People don’t keep journals for themselves, they keep them for other people. Like a secret they don’t want to tell, but secretly want everyone to know." Bingo.

Party

Can't help it. I just love these animals. Have a nice weekend.

Good thing some people never get to rule

Let's not start talking about what we would ban if we had the power to do it. I'm afraid the conversation would get rather rough in no time.

Almost the eulogy

I've been blogging for a long time now. Seven years is a long time, especially if one considers that I'm twenty-five. I've written in many blogs. Some were more personal and open than this one. Others were (are) shared with others. One of such blogs remains a secret today, and will remain a secret. In some blogs I talked about myself clearly. In others, I make metaphors (here). In others, I talk about myself indirectly, as I don't write objectively stuff like "I feel like shit today"; instead I write about the books I read, the movies I watched; I share political and social opinions; I publish non-sense, dark, twisted humour and general rubbish. I never did it for anyone's sake, but for mine; even when my posts assumed the form of a message especifically thought and written to someone, I did it for me, not for them. I suppose a lot of people who read me in the several blogs I write for nowadays know a lot about me, probably more than I think they do.
Anyway. I've learned some tricks in all this time. For example, on my first blog I tended to talk more about emotions in a positive, and sometimes ridiculously and pretentiously poetic way - excuse me, I was eighteen and I was a believer; not the cold-hearted cynical I am today -, and that granted me a fair audience, with some posts going for dozens of comments. Waste no time searching for that blog: it was erased from the internet years ago, and no one's going to read it anymore. Anyway. I remember the similarities between ninety percent of such comments: they were empty, they were an early version of today's "like button". I don't mind the silence. I'm used to it - I'd say that ninety-nine percent of my posts do not have a single comment, and even though I like it when I get feedback, I don't really mind it. The only sorrow I have concerning it - yes, I admit it - is that most of my best friends do not really care about whatever I write (as far as I can remember, there are three exceptions, and you know who you are), but that's something I've learned how to handle years ago, if they don't care then I have not to care about the fact that they don't care. Simple. Other than that, I do love my readers, either those I have met in person (in real life, if you want), and those I haven't (that hopefully I will meet one day - except for those who live in Brazil, in the U.S., in Central Europe, in India and in Thailand). They're few, but they're the best. All right, I wouldn't show my appreciation if they had a "like button" under them for me to click, as I wouldn't click it; but I actually enjoy writing a post like this, messed up, without much sense, just to show that even though I write for my own leisure - and my own sanity -, it's always a pleasure to have you around. Make yourselves at home all the time.
And now I notice, this post is rather similar to the blog's eulogy. Yes, an eulogy is written - and said - when someone dies. This blog will die one day, and even if I don't know when that's going to happen, I know it's going to happen. So the last post of this blog is already written, and lies locked among the drafts, waiting for the day when it's going to be needed. It's funny to think that the last post of this blog is already written, and that it is an unchangeable fact.

Those who stay behind

I shall never understand the people who doesn't do anything so others can move forward, and start pouting and whining once someone dedides to break the stillness and to give one step forward, not caring about who stays behind, only about who decides to follow. Not everyone is willing to lag behind and wait all the time.

Dislikes (3)

Somehow I can't help feeling that the popular "like" button on facebook is truly the "escape button": people use it pointlessly, to fill the void of the words they cannot bring themselves to say. They know not the value of silence; they abhor the silence, in fact. They feel that they must always say something, in any possible circumstance; they reject the idea of being caught off-guard, out of words. So they hit a button: they "like it", it's okay, the world retains its order. It doesn't. It's just another illusion.

Likes (2):

Rain. Welcome back, miss.

The meaningless actions

And then I start thinking for a while about everything that vanishes once such a step is taken. I know I shouldn't be astonished by it now, but the fact is, almost everything is changed, when not wiped out completely. It's nothing big, of course - but life ain't big either, it is made of countless little things, and those little things are the one providing meaning to everything else. My dark corner, with the red seat and the wooden walls, will never be the same. It's funny, it hadn't hit me yet - the last time I was there was so recentely, everything was the same, everything was unchanged, and I remember being there and thinking: this place will never change, and that's the wonderful about it. A few days later, I'm the one bringing the change to it - to it and to everything else, an impending change. I'm not really sure whether we're aware of the huge meaning of our most meaningless actions. Probably not.

In every possible way, on both sides of the struggle:

You got your reasons
And me, I got mine
But all the reasons I gave
Were just lies to buy
Myself some time.

Arcade Fire, Ocean of Noise

No, we can't be friends.

It's not that I have to worry about it, because they'd never start using it anyway, but if there's one thing in this life that I would not do in any circumstance, it would be adding my parents to facebook. Never, ever.

Choices

How about making the right choices in the worst possible moments? Talk about bad luck.

Dislikes (2)

The douchebags who have no notion whatsoever of "public space" and "annoying", and decide to use their cellphones or their mp3 players to listen to their music without headphones, which means that everyone will have no choice but to listen to their music. This one gets more painful because the sound is always too loud, and its quality is never good; and the music itself is the shittiest thing possible, sheer ear-killer dance music or hip-hop. Seriously. People with a decent musical taste also are decent enough to understand the value of headphones? Fucking hell. Everytime I find one of these assholes in a bus I can't help thinking "now a bullet between the eyes wouldn't really be wasted".

Missing (2):

Wild blackberries. Just as those in the photo above. Some of these can be found in some trees during summertime, but in my homeland, we find them in thorny shrubberies. Back in the days I used to get on my bike and ride many miles in the countryside around the village, only to find them. Last time I did it was eight years ago. Every summer I tell myself, I'll ride my bike and get the berries again. And every summer ends and I don't do it. Next one. The next one will be the one.

I just don't know what to do with myself

Friday's music by Jack and Meg, the best ex-couple of today's music, also known as The White Stripes: