A twinge of guilt

I searched for words. They never came. I pretended to loath. In vain.
So I bore the blame. Too bad it was guilt. A twinge of guilt that seared me.

I concealed the truth. Forgot where it lay. Made myself clear. And lost it all the same.

In truth, it was ok.

Strange Habit

I've got this strange habit
of changing my life
to prove my love true

This strange habit
of changing myself
in order to show that I care

So then from time to time
I wonder how much
of one's self would be enough
to prove enough

For I feel I've given it all away
and all the changes I've made
were not changes at all

I've lost a house
I've lost friends
I've lost hope
and still prove
is all I feel needs improving

It's become clear for some time now that I am not well. I keep trying to track down the moment I began feeling like this, in the hope that somehow I can make it disappear. So far, I've failed. First, I thought it might have been a few weeks ago. The day I realised you'd do exactly what I've always imagined you would. I wrote about it. I'm not sure you read it. It was the book I sent you, in which I pictured you as king who would soon enough find out he could not have everything.
But then, I realised it could not have been that particular moment, for I was sad longer before that. Maybe it was when you left me. You walked throught that door and I never saw you again. There wasn't a single time after you'd call me. You'd erased me completely. All my efforts were in vain. You'd not come back, and so you didn't. I don't know how long we'd been apart before that miserable day. Sometimes I think we were never together. So maybe my sadness came to be in the day we met, as you were never really available to me. I can remember all the moments you rejected me, one by one, and each one seems to rip me up harder than the other.
Or perhaps that's not really fair of me, in that I remember I was desperately looking for something to look forward to. I mustn't have been so well before that bitter sweet november. Was it then when I first fell in love? Or has love nothing to do with my pain? Was it me? Was it on the day I decided to give it all up just in order to have a chance? I was so small and the world seemed so large. So I stood before it and screamed loud and clear that I would not let it go.

The trip

Last weekend I was in your town. I actually didn't mean to go there. I was travelling with a group of friends and they decided to stop in Guarapari on the way back to Vitória. I can't say it was pleasant. None of them knew about what had happened and I couldn't bring myself to telling them... nor asking them not to make the stop. So I pretended nothing was going on.

It was hard. I keep imagining you'd show up... on a corner... on some street. I don't what I'd have done if we met. I've been feeling so bad and I don't know what would be like to feel even worse. So I guess I just closed myself up and tried not to scream. At times, I'd think of the past. There were only two occasions I was in that town with you. And we didn't go out much. You'd prefer to stay in for some reason that seemed silly at the time, and even sillier today. There's something you were not telling me, I suppose. But I guess none of this matters now.

But then I 'd picture things that never happened. I'd imagine what it 'd be like to have been part of your routine. I imagined being part of your town, of your life. We'd walk on the streets, you'd show me places that witnessed events of your past. I would get to know your family, your house, you. Then I began desperately to miss something I never had. I became even sadder than before. And so I felt sorry for myself.

It's painful to wonder about a life that I never lived. To know that choices were there, and we made the wrong ones. That time has passed by, and so have you, and I have not. To revisit places on land, and in my head, and so my heart won't go on. Then I think: do you miss it too?

Nada sobrou...

Tempo, dedicação, amor, segurança, apoio, incentivo, confiança, respeito, conhecimento, ajuda, saudade, compromisso, sorrisos, lágrimas, admiração, ternura, afeto.

Minha família, meus amigos, casa, abrigo, dinheiro, viagens, comida, expectativas, perspectiva, meu futuro, seu futuro, paixão, cama, quarto, sala, meu coração.

Um 'eu te amo' de supetão, paciência, espera, esperança, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza, certeza.

Eu sei que você prefere pensar que guardou o melhor de mim e que isso é amor. Mas isso não é amor. Isso é roubar de mim o que você nunca me deu.

Sonhos, projetos, obsessão, certeza, certeza, certeza.

Respeito.

Sinceridade.

Então você prefere pensar que guardou o melhor de mim e que isso é amor.

Pensamentos que não cessam. Seus estudos. Minha universidade. Vontades. Desejos.

Você roubou de mim o que nunca me deu.

Horas, dias, semanas, meses, anos. Minutos que não querem passar. Meu tempo... Todo meu tempo.

Livros, um dragão, um 'eu te amo' de supetão.

Eu sei que você prefere pensar que guardou o melhor de mim e que isso é amor. Mas isso não é amor. Isso é roubar de mim o que você nunca me deu.

E agora sinto que roubou tudo que tinha... e nada sobrou.

E agora sinto que dei tudo que tinha... e nada sobrou.

Why then

Next July I turn 29. It has been quite some time now since I stopped caring about how fast time is going by or how old I'd soon become. I cannot say that some things have not changed, though. I remember that when I was 17, I'd think love is something stale, or at least still. It is not. Not only would love transform itself throughout my days, but also I'd chance the way I see loves I had.
It's funny... you can't know how love feels when you are living it. Or... all loves may just seem the same. They are not the same. But it's only with time that you begin to realise how very peculiar each one of the people you said 'I love you' to is. That too I'd already figured out. A few days ago, however, I began to think of something new. I started to notice how I can only see love at very rare times.
When Daniel broke up with me, he wrote me a letter in which he said he'd never really loved me. I was so furious. I knew it was not true. I told he had no right to tell me so and mentioned one or two times when I was sure he loved me. One of them was when we first started going out, it was a Sunday evening and I told him it was somewhat late for us to see each other that day. But he insisted on seeing me. So he took bus and after over an hour we met. We stayed together for maybe twenty or thirty minutes and I was really surprised he felt such an urge for meeting me for so short a time. I told him that made me feel really special and that I was glad he came. That day I felt really loved. We were together for almost year, and there weren't many times like that. Not that it was his fault, or that we were any different from most couples. Love is actually like this. It doesn't show itself often, even when it's there.
Maybe it was because of this that I felt years later the desperate need to show my love. That was what I did with Filipe. All the time we were together, everyday, I'd show him how much I loved. Him... but also love as a single word. I loved... and I wanted him to notice that. Probably I wasn't aware of what I was doing. I couldn't really. I gave him everything I had; love was just a part of it.
I am falling apart now because I came to think it was only me. It was all me. I keep thinking and trying to remember when I saw love in his eyes. When was the time that he touched me and I believed he didn't want to be anywhere else? I can't. I am trying really hard, and I can't. There was none. It was always me; everything we had was me. Why then? Why did I love him all the time? Why didn't he do anything if I am sure he was sure I was all his?

Sometimes I can't quite believe I'm still standing
for I bear all the reasons not to carry on
yet ceasing seems so silly and so very right
and I am amazed at this great strength
at this wierd and exhausting strength
to which I insist on hanging on

That, my friend

From now on
there are a few things
I want you to remember.

Just some quick notes
to guide you into this life
you have chosen.

From now on,
whenever you wake up
and you fell a nagging ache
you can't really tell
where it's throbbing.

Well, that, my friend,
is called thinking only
about yourself.

And then when one very day
you realise no one actually cares about you
and you've been alone
for more than you'd like
and everybody around you
is not really on your side.

Well, that, my friend,
is called thinking only
about yourself.

And finally
if one day you are sorry
for every step you ever took
and every right becomes a wrong
every dream is completely shattered
and every choice turns into one big regret.

Well, that, my friend,
is called I told you so.