#36:56 Dec 21st, 2011 | 30 notes
3:04am. On a glimpse of the night I caught with my bare hands the choices I did have. Alcohol riding the waves of your breath. You’ve been drunk of people your whole life, living from a story to another without even asking for it. I’ve been there, standing alone in a quiet room where I lived a life in a simple way, watching people pass by in the corridor but seeing no one knocking the door to come in. You’re as the others, either for shyness or non-interest, and from the moment I met your eyes I knew that if I wanted to get your breath inside my room I’d need to push you in. And that implies to put a step out and fight for you with all I had. Guess what - I had my choices at 3:04am and I made my mind at 3:05am. The cowardice take by excuse the spirits in your veins - I wouldn’t be another name in a list blurred by alcohol. I was not fighting for you that night, and I don’t know if I will ever be able to fight for you, dear. You’re not the easiest crush to have on anyone, you know.
#21:37 Dec 20th, 2011 | 17 notes
She has this old wooden trunk full of memories right behind her bed. She comes back in time again and again as if it was her own drug against all the broken dreams that follow her in those midnights spent alone. Every memory is perfectly tagged, so she’s able to find the right one for the instant she’s passing through or the feeling she wants to be eaten by. In her mess, she found the control that everyone knows she can’t find in her life. What anyone knows is, in that old wooden trunk, covered by a nostalgic weekend by the sea, there’s this little box. This little empty box she hasn’t decided yet what it is for. It has your name on the lid. The problem is that she isn’t clear about if it is for all the times that are coming or for the absence of those that weren’t and won’t be ever. From a time to now, every night, she watches that tiny box in silence, wondering what will be the answer to its enigma.
#18:58 Dec 19th, 2011 | 5 notes
I apologize if it caused any trouble, sir, but I needed to kiss this guy. And that necessity does not involve those extra-sugary feelings of “I’d rather die if I don’t have him”, but the real ones about a real girl whose life changed the day his eyes met hers. It’s not like I’m different now - the dreamy magic-and-love-believer half-realistic girl Your Honor could have met years ago is still here. But this guy gave me life, sir - life. And it’s because of that I did what I did.
I had this problem my whole life, Your Honor - I’ve had no diet but books my entire life. So I grew up knowing that love stories are just a cruel way authors have to become best-sellers. That none of them has a place in the real world. I grew up knowing I’d marry a common guy and have a common family, while waiting every single day of my existence for that man to appear - the only one who would make me feel everything I would want to taste. I just happened to know that love stories weren’t for me, sir. And then he appeared. It’s not as if he came singing to my house his own written songs, but he made me feel - and for someone who was panicking about the idea that she won’t feel ever anything at all, that was everything.
Your Honor, this guy hasn’t made me move to another country, learn a foreign language, change my hairstyle or have another likes, but he changed my life. He made me a little bolder, a little smilier, a little dreamier, a little everythinger. He intensified my existence as no one before. And it just happened that I needed to kiss him because I needed to know if it was like or love or lust or just the gratitude for making me alive again. I just needed to know if those green eyes would eventually leave me alone or were going to be my very own doom, Your Honor.
I needed to kiss this guy, sir, so yes - I find myself unavoidable irreparable and completely guilty of having kissed him without permission and regrets. Don’t ever listen to my lawyer, sir - I’ll take all the consequences because I deserve every single and one of them. Thank you.
well, let's be honest: if you're here for perfection, I'd gently ask you to leave. because she isn't. she is the kind of people who senses her life through every single cell of her body and has the uncontrollable desire to write about it and let the world answer if it has felt the same way ever. wherever she can, whenever she is able to. every single word is a raindrop of her very own storm, and you have to understand it. because, well: she's left behind her name and her language in order to scape from her body. it's about feelings, here - feelings, words and emotions. nothing more, nothing less. she'd try to be the whisper in your ear that tells you you should meet that girl on the front seat in the metro because of the stories she's hiding behind her lips or maybe that boy reading kafka because he makes your world spin a lot faster. she is here writing in english because she wants to leave her identity behind, like superman - yeah, she feels kinda superman sometimes. she thinks this is gonna give her some kind of freedom. maybe that's her main problem: the anxiousness for freedom she can't get rid of.
the grammar is gonna be wrong, the spelling incorrect, the vocabulary insufficient. but this is not about words, but words. so, I beg you to take a seat and some cups of coffee. promise me you're gonna listen to her carefully - neither me or she, we won't ask for anything else.