In this dark, empty and cold room it never felt so relaxing to be able to write at this time. I think it's cold but I am not sure anymore as I am not sure of anything anymore.
Well, I am sure of one thing, at least. Christmas is the saddest time of the year, its a pain almost unbearable to stand. I keep imagining you, in a dark room perhaps, alone because people tend to forget things, you know, its the circle of live...we just forget things easily. Will you be crying while looking out of the window, staring at an empty and quiet road because no one's in the street at the Christmas Eve, they stay with their families, happily smiling and wrapping up presents near the fireplace. It's been 2 years since you got on that bed, unable to move, it's been two whole years since my Christmas has no meaning. Knowing I can't spend it with you thorns my heart appart. Don't get me wrong, I think about you every day, but Christmas is supposed t be a happy time, but it's not. I'm sorry if I don't go visit you, I just can't hold back my tears and I don't want you to see me crying, I don't want to make you sad. I'm sorry if I am selfish, I care about you, but I think I am not mature enough to bare this pain. I reaaly miss you and I want you to know how much I love you, because I do. I wish I could do something to change all this, but it's not up for me to decide, I wish I was less selfish, less imature and more kind.
I wish I could enter to that door and see you smiling back at me and saying "Here's my grandchild, I've missed you so much sweetheart!", but I will never have that feeling back again. Even sorry's not good enough...but still that is all I can say on my behalf (for now).

I'm sorry granny, I love you.

Thoughts of my own

First things first. I thought about writing something in here, then I gave it a second thought and realized that maybe it would be a stupid thing to do. But who cares, this is my blog and I can pretty much write everything I want in here. EVERY FREAKING THING I WANT TO! Second. I write in english when I'm trying to express something I'm not too comfortable with. It's odd, maybe, but then again: Who freaking cares? No one is going to read this anyway (forever alone much, lol).
I guess that "who freaking cares" is the hot spot question that I've been asking myself for quite some time now. No one is going to care if you're miserable, so you might as well pretend to be happy, it'll make things easier for everyone, and that's the real problem. People should say what they think and what they feel, it'd make them feel lighter, it's ease their burdens.
I've learnt a few things lately, some of them I'll put in a metaphorical way. Why? Just cause I can.
I've learnt that people, like seasons, change. No one can avoid that, it is how it is.
I've learnt that poems doesn't always rhyme, and things, no matter how perfectly they match, sometimes they don't belong together. I've also learnt that people like to ruin their lives, for no reason. We are just stuping beings by nature. Brainless.
So, instead of crying myself to sleep, which sounds pretty dramatic and cliché (and I hate that) I've decided to come here and vent my frustrations here, in this forever alone blog (I'm going to start to designate it like that, sounds great, or not).
At this point I feel disgusted about myself, complaining like this. "There are people out there with REAL problems Bia, you know?! You're just being a drama-queen at the moment!" (Monologues help me to keep a decent level of sanity, or not). I've never expected anything from the start and I planned not to get too attached, but I failed. A HUGE FAILURE! Trying to avoid it was of any use in the end. I got attached and now I've walked all this way of stupidity and ended up here writing a stupid post on my own blog. Brilliant! And to make things worse, it is a wall of text (filled with major bullshit that not even I will read after I'm done). So I guess that's it, I've written a lot and said almost nothing. Fantastic!

I don't apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. Just to let you (the unexisting person that is reading this) know that. :)

"Quis agarrar a ti o mar
Quis agarrar a ti o Sol
Quis que o mar fosse maior
Quis que o mar tocasse o Sol "

Há sempre um lugar onde podemos desvanecer e reencontrar-nos.
Onde as lágrimas são segredos fechados a sete chaves num quarto escuro e velho, onde as crianças não riem e têm medo de entrar e onde a humidade veste as paredes. O eco do passado enlouquece-nos e deixa-nos ver o que restou de nós. Nada. O vazio enche o quarto e esquece-mo-nos que aqui ficamos à margem de nós próprios, que podemos perder. Fechamos os olhos e fugimos. De quê? Tentamos apagar os restos de nós mesmos, esquecer as memórias dolorosas do passado, de quem não quis saber e partiu, para longe, muito longe. Mas há sempre mais um dia para sair do quarto e sorrir. Há sempre um dia para fechar o quarto a sete chaves e sair a correr para todo o lado e para lado nenhum, para nos sentirmos felizes e esquecermos as lágrimas secretas, que vão sussurrando na nossa memória.

Não se passa nada e isso, por mais deprimente que seja, é uma constante ultimamente.

Lisboa bairrista, hoje passeei por ela, percorri-lhe as ruelas, os becos e descobri-lhe os segredos gravados nas pedras que o sol beija com um beijo quente e que perdura. "Home is where the heart is", por isso, Lisboa é a minha segunda casa, hoje conquistou-me com a vista maravilhosa para o Tejo, o pulsar mais preguiçoso de domingo, com o sol a queimar-me a cara e o ar de cortar a respiração. Foi o desejo de descoberta que fez com que, finalmente, me pudesse apaixonar por ela e chamar-lhe de casa, mesmo quando me perdia entre prédios e palacetes.
Todas as ruas, os bairros, os becos e os largos têm histórias para contar carregados de memórias de quem os habita, pelas "pessoas do costume" que lhes dão vida e mantêm as memórias acesas.
Senti-me confortavelmente abraçada pelas casas oitocentistas de uma Lisboa moderna que se esquece da sua própria história. É aqui, na cidade, que os vários séculos colidem e que ninguém parece notar a batalha que travam, as pessoas passam sem realmente olhar, sem expressão no rosto apressadas para chegar a todo o lado e a lado nenhum e os carros nas filas intermináveis de Lisboa entopem as ruas com fumo. Ninguém ouve o Fado que Lisboa canta nem as musas do Tejo que declamam epopeias, as suas vozes morrem no ar sufocadas pelas buzinas de condutores impacientes, contudo, Lisboa nunca perderá o seu encanto, o seu bairrismo e as pedras continuarão a contar histórias de outras glórias perdidas no tempo que muitos já esqueceram.

Tenho as gavetas vazias, procuro nelas o amor que um dia guardei mas deixei fugir. Não as tranquei bem e ele escapou por entre as frestas que deixámos abertas. Nunca mais vi aquele amor e nunca mais tive outro igual. Agora, tranco as gavetas todas e deito fora a chave, não vá eu querer guardar um outro amor qualquer.