Manchester, a love story

I told you the truth. I have lost my ability to write. Maybe its because of the language difference, it feels false to write in Portuguese - but English isn't as comforting. 

When I kissed your lips, I didn't need a language. I only had to decipher where you wanted me to touch you, surfing in the waves of your moans. Feeling your penis hard on my hands.

I wanted to set you free while I pulled you closer. I wanted to take your mind away, a place we could both be together. Far away from this bedroom and these walls that are not ours.

I had a feeling about you when I saw you. I know you were drunk and I was high. But I still had a feeling about you and my instinct wasn't wrong.

If only life was kinder and you lived closer. If only life could be a permanent succession of slam poetry gigs and sex in an Air BNB. If only I could find you again, standing against the wall, covered in white feathers and with a goofy half drunk smile.

Why do we have so many borders keeping us apart when there are no borders in our minds? 

In Glasgow, the only currency is truth

Last night I had an usual night. Decided to go out to someones party, everyone was there, etc.
Ended up going back to my friend ST house party in fucking Ibrox - and suddenly someone brought up the guy I was\am kinda of seeing.

He is so weird though!
He is just so weird, don't you think M?
I mean he just doesn't look right in the head.


And this is the thing, the more you have to hide, the more inherently people will be suspicious of you.

the boy and the city

urgh.
why am I going back to Portugal?
why did I spend so much money if none of it is going to be valued?
I hate christmas and I hate my hometown.
good fucking luck to me

Dear diary, I'm back

hello, it been a long time.
I thought I had lost this space for good. But I 'm still here, still fighting.
Most importantly still WRITING

King of Self Destructive behavior

Its easy to snub off the addicts, the poor, the mentally ill, the ones that live in the border of society. Apart from the system, we say that they didn't try hard enough or that they were not strong enough to be able to part of society. 

The interesting part is the exact same people that judge the fringe are the ones that feed of them, as leeches. For every real job, for every night out, take out and fuck out there is someone else paying for it. 

Knowingly so I fly my flag high. I am the king of destructive behaviour - not as an act of ignorance but as an act of rebellion. 

Because lashing out doesn't work - so you destroy yourself. 

Deny and Destroy. 

People like us

I am not fully certain anyone my age knows exactly what they are doing. We all seem to be stuck, either in jobs we hate, maddening people that use us (as much as we use them) or some sort of wishful thinking that everything will be all right in the end and our dreams will come true.

Just today, when I had to go back on that poison called facebook, I saw some jock I used to know in primary school saying that he was a writer.

Now, as I will admit I have no idea what the hell is going to his life now, I did use to know him very well. He was a rebel, an athlete, his mother has bat shit crazy, he once broke up with a girl because she wouldn't have sex with him. He was popular, shy and after 11th grade he had such a full on beard he looked about 25. 

This person is now coming back to the world saying he is a writer. An actual writer - of what, I don't know really. Maybe he will be the next Tolkien or the next Sparks. Who actually knows?

But the fact that he believes that he is a writer, a human being that is worth being read really annoys and confuses me.

Maybe understanding what is going on is understanding is we are all writers, painters, photographers - maybe the sole problem in my generation isn't finding a way - is actually choosing one fucking thing.

And after we do, how do we not end up being the guy with no hands that wants to draw? 

We all have mental problems, health issues, low self esteem, fucked up parents, a fucking personalised macbook and we all have stories that we think need to be heard.

But do we really?

What separates a good writer from a bad writer? What is the propose of writing? I am a writer or an angst young adult just pouring whatever crap I think into this space?

What if I am also Lena Dunham? And Oscar Wilde? And Virgina Woolf? And Picasso?

2

Missing connections

Tive dias muito maus em Glasgow - sem dinheiro, sem dormir, sem cigarros para acalmar o espirito. Tive dias em que estava sozinho, no meu quarto, a pensar em cortar os pulsos. ou engolir 7 caixas de comprimidos. pensei em jogar de um prédio, arranjar um arma, ir contra um carro em movimento.

mas ha sempre uma voz que diz: não, não quero morrer.

tenho impressão que essa voz se calou hoje - perdi um voo, quase a perder outro - quase a perder as minhas ferias em portugal, quase a perder a sanidade mental. 

ja tive dias com cafe muito mau, com a garganta irritada, atrasado, confuso, suado - e porem sentado na merda do fuckbucks  nunca tudo me pareceu tao mau. 

como sempre, como sempre, para sempre, sozinho na merda em que eu criei. 

eu semeio nazis e colho holocaustos.