Saudade

All you can picture inside your head, over and over again, is you closing the door behind you. It felt… irremediable. Your own version of passing the Rubicon. That was the moment when the nostalgia of all that could no longer be began.

It is said that when two people break up, one feels relieved, free. It is over. It is time to move on. And the other one is left with the broken pieces of their heart, not knowing what to do.

Saudade. The love that remains, the love that no amount of poison could ever kill. The love that will eventually alter itself to become what is left when nothing can be done anymore.

It was beautiful… Continue reading

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Paradise

Johnny Cash was once asked for his definition of paradise. He used six simple words to answer what often proves to be a difficult question to most people.

“This morning, with her, having coffee.”

Who is her? I have often asked myself. Where does one find her? How? When?

Of course, I have found her. And lost her. And found her again. And again. And every time my heart broke, it would heal itself through some sort of long forgotten magic, but it would no longer be the same. It would beat less and less for her…

In a perfect world, we could give our heart to someone, and they’d cherish this gift enough to keep it safe. But this is a wicked, wicked world, and people always leave, and soulmates fall out of love, and nothing lasts forever, because forever is just a made-up word. And people always, and I mean always, will drop your heart to the ground. They’ll always drop it.

I became afraid that I’d never find my way to a paradise that would last for the rest of my life. My happily ever after. The ending that I have always felt the story of my life deserved.

When there was no her to wake up next to, it felt like hell. A strange hell, one that was so quiet, so desolate, so destitute, that it felt like being blind, numb, and deaf.

Sartre was wrong. Hell is never other people. Hell is loneliness. Hell is dreaming of her all night long, only to wake up all alone in the morning…

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Pure, perfect sex

The moon is shining hard and cold against the marbled floor of the living room. Few guests tonight, the two waitresses are sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. Next to them, Alice is sipping lazily from a champagne glass.

She turns around in her stool and notices a woman. She is wearing a silk white dress, her hand holding onto a champagne glass, her black eyes, the eyes of a rebel, contemptuously glancing around at the other guests. Her slim body, her black hair covering her naked shoulders, she is more than perfection itself, she is more than…

She notices Alice looking at her and she gently nods her head and smiles.  For the briefest of moments.

Alice walks closer. Somehow. Without her realizing. She has to. Continue reading

Strange

It felt strange sitting there on the couch next to Amber. And it wasn’t because the air inside the living room felt like steam. It was because I felt as if were an actor who has rehearsed his lines so many times and then, when he has to utter them in front of an audience, the rest of the cast change their lines.

“Do you think I’m crazy?” I asked her.

“You? Why?”

“Because I flew all the way to Paris just to see you.”

She laughed. ”Don’t be silly. It’s a sweet thing what you did.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Do you want something to drink?”

I nodded. She stood up and went to the kitchen. Continue reading

Strangers

Some say life resembles a highway. We travel so fast because we don’t want to live in the here and now, because we feel that the future is going to be better than we can imagine. We travel on a highway that’s slowly sinking under the horizon, with no maps, trying to get to a place we can’t be sure exists. On each side of this road, there are trees and endless fields – a barren wasteland melting under the sun or shivering beneath a silvery moon. We don’t have time to stop, we don’t have time to think.

At 100 miles per hour, you’re entire being collapses into a reflex.

The only way we can realize what’s going on is for us to crash into others. A painful process, in which there’s a lot of damage to be made, but a necessary one nonetheless. Continue reading

Beautiful ghosts

They say you’ll live forever if a writer falls in love with you.

Tell this to the right girl and she’s yours. Of course, it might take a while to find her, and it obviously helps if you’re somewhat famous.

But I don’t tell them that I’d only write about them if they’d break my heart. Because that’s how I put the pieces back together. I don’t tell them that I stopped loving a long time ago.

It’s not that I don’t want to, I simply can’t. That bizarre mechanism that allows people to feel as if someone else is a part of who they are, as if they’ve found something they’ve always felt was missing… well, that mechanism’s broken for me. Continue reading

Fairytales

 

“Do you believe in fairytales?” You asked him, letting your head rest on his shoulder. God, he felt good. It felt good; your head was meant to lie, right there, on him.
“Only women believe in fairytales.”
“Only women believe in fairytales…yes…but who writes them?”
It is women who want love, and men who understand it.
It is women who believe in fairytales, and men who write them.
It is women who want to be a man’s last love, and men who want to be a woman’s first true romance.
Women and men and all the words they use to get what they want.
Sticks and stones may break your bones, but it’s words that break a heart…