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Quando eu era pequena, eu nunca havia entendido muito bem porque alguém gostaria do para sempre. Muito menos, porque alguém desejaria o para sempre. Eu lembro de sempre esperar pelo novo, por algo que surpreendesse e que tornasse os dias ainda mais inesperados. O que eu percebo hoje é que, para mim, naquela época, o para sempre estava incluido, eu só nunca me dei conta de que ele estava lá.
O tempo passou e de repente, o para sempre, se tornou necessário. Como algo que precisava continuar lá e que nunca mudaria. Que se manteria. Por mais piegas que isso soe.
A verdade? Eu quero o para sempre. Eu não quero lembrar que o amanhã vem, e que o hoje não será para sempre. Que, em dez anos, tudo pode mudar. Ou então em um mês; seis meses.
Eu quero as risadas para sempre. Eu quero o mato, eu quero os churrascos, eu quero as brincadeiras de bobinho, eu quero a correria, eu quero os tombos, eu quero fugir de vacas e touros, eu quero os jogos de final de ano, eu quero o caderno, eu quero as salas de aula, eu quero a godiva e eu quero os cinemas. Eu quero as festas que fazem com que eu me sinta um completo peixe fora d'água, eu quero as apresentações, eu quero as brincadeiras, as viagens, minha família. Para sempre.
Eu quero as coisas que me fizeram, me definiram, aqui, do meu lado. Eu quero olhar para trás e vê-las e eu quero olhar para frente e continuar sendo capaz de vê-las. Eu não quero o incerto. Eu quero aquilo que faz com que eu me sinta em casa. Eu não tenho medo do futuro. Mas, nesse momento, eu não quero o futuro.
Eu quero o Para Sempre. Eu quero que o tempo se mantenha. Eu não quero que ele passe. Eu quero o Pó mágico. Peter Pan? Sininho? Alguém?

What should have been said.

I can't talk.

What happened? Why don't you say anything?
I can't talk. Anything about what?

When did this happen?
I can't talk. Nothing happened.

Why did you cry?
I'm weak. Hormones.

Why don't you just let go?
I just can't let you down. Let go of what?

How are you gonna be okay if you don't let yourself feel?
I don't know. I do feel.

Why can't you just say what is wrong?
I don't know how. There is nothing wrong.

You need to live one day after the other.
I already do. Ok.

Was there something that made you like this?
Yes. No.

Is there anything I can do?
Yes. No.

That is it? Then, I guess I am gonna go now.
No. Please, stay. Sure.

Bye then.
I am sorry. See ya.

You know, whenever you need to, just talk to me, okay?
I can't talk. How the hell am I supposed to re-learn now? I just want you to hug me.
I just want you to hug me, and never let go. Of course.

Bye.
I...Bye.

You just Jump.

The storm's all about who you become, and how you dance in the rain. You go, go, go, and never stops. Never look behind. But after all, why would you? It always gets you somewhere. Even if it's not the prettiest place. You are always a different person that you were when the storm began. And maybe...just maybe..that is already worth it enough.

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm's all about." — Haruki Murakami

Love Never Lasts.

There was something about that kiss. There was something about the way he kissed you, quick, and certain it would happen again. Certain it wasn't the last time.
That day hadn't turned out the way you thought it would, at all. One minute you were walking, laughing with your friends and the other you looked up, crossed his eyes, and he sent you that smile that would make you smile without even realising.
Suddenly you were talking. Suddenly he was Hugging you. Suddenly you were hugging him back. Suddenly you couldn't look away from his eyes, and suddenly you couldn't stop talking to each other.
Suddenly a whole day had passed, and you didn't feel like you had missed a moment.
Suddenly you were in an airplane and He was right next to you, and you were still talking. You were confortable, laying your head in his shoulder, playing with his hands and once in a while laughing about something he said. Other times, silence would feel enough.
Next to you there were many people who you had traveled with, and once in a while, you would turn to their side, talk, laugh, talk some more, he would join you, and later you would go back to how it was before.
Suddenly, the plane landed, he looked at you and smiled while you said "We are home!".
He helped you get up, held your waist and with one hand in your neck, kissed you.
There was something about the way it felt like something that should have happened before. Something about the way he looked at you, and something about the way he smiled at you.
And then, You woke up.

It was always this whole cicle with me.
Me and Boy. Boy is funny. Boy is my friend. Boy is my best friend. Boy sends me a kiss. I can't send it back. I don't show my feelings. I don't know how. When I do so, I feel silly. Boy makes me laugh. Boy laughs at my attempt of making a good joke. I smile when I see his smile. I laugh when I hear his laugh. Boy hugs me. I hug him back. Boy holds me tight. I feel safe.
Boy don't talk so much anymore. Boy don't come look for me anymore. Boy don't make me laugh anymore. Boy don't give me hugs anymore. Boy comes talk to me to ask about something he needs. I answer. Boy sits next to me. I talk to boy for hours. Boy laughs because I fell. Boy makes a joke. I tease him. I think everything is back to normal. Boy treats me different. Boy starts do become a stranger. I try to talk to boy. I don't know how. Boy let go. I wonder if boy misses me too. Boy become only a person I know. I get mad. I get hurt. I realise I am in love with the boy. Boy is in love with another girl. I cut him out of my life. I become part of the group boy makes fun of. I start disliking the boy. Boy becomes a playboy. Boy don't smile the way he used to anymore. I don't laugh at his jokes anymore. Boy changes. I change. Me and Boy become only two people who are in the same space. Boy is not who he used to be anymore. I am not who I used to be anymore. Boy hurts me again. I don't show it. I start to hate the boy. I try to hate him. I finally let go. I realise I actually loved that boy. Boy becomes an old memory. Boy is a bitter and good old memory altogether. I meet a new boy.

“I try to talk to you, but I don't know what to say. I am afraid you don't want me to say anything. So I don't. But inside of me there are words waiting to come out. And tell you how I feel-like how I miss you. And how I love you despite my broken heart. And how I need you in my life. And especially how much I want you. But those words may forever stay in my heart-locked inside. Sometimes I wonder if there are words locked inside you too... but I'll never know.”

Life doesn't give second chances.

No final do Ano passado eu vi uma imagem que me marcou. Era quase Ano Novo, e estava assistindo o resumo do que aconteceu naquele ano, aquele em que, de repente, uma música parece falar pelo ano e os vídeos mostram 365 dias divididos em conquistas e tristezas. No final de todas aquelas imagens, de todo aquele desastre, eu reparei no fundo da câmera dois bombeiros no meio daquele buraco. Um deles chorava, e o outro lhe estendia a mão, e em meio a todo o caos, você via dois homens, os quais o mundo provavelmente veria como pessoas preparadas para qualquer acontecimento, abalados; surpresos; humanos. Eu não sei dizer o porquê, entre tudo o que eu vi, aquilo me trouxe lágrima aos olhos. Talvez seja até horrível pensar que antes disso, eu ainda não tinha chorado, mesmo estando com os olhos grudados na TV. E então o Ano foi embora e, de repente, centenas de pessoas estavam mortas, e quando eu achei que esse ia ser o momento inesquecível - e não de uma forma boa - deste ano, milhares de pessoas estavam mortas de novo. E de repente, o mundo parou. Parou para rezar por, pelo menos, uma pessoa viva, e parou para olhar homens e mulheres, pais e mães, filhos, netos, desesperados enquanto tentavam tirar os escombros que sufocavam um parente, ou um amigo, ou um desconhecido. Eu sei que é um assunto pesado, e eu sei que é um assunto que não acaba.
Mas ontem, enquanto eu assistia "Hope For Haiti Now", eu vi um homem que se recusou a sair de onde sua esposa estava, jurando que ela ainda estava por lá, e que viva ou morta, ele não sairia daquele lugar até encontrá-la. E quando ele a encontrou - viva e enterrada - a única coisa que ela disse pelo momento foi "Tell him, Live or Dead, I love him". E então o mundo parou de novo. E parou mais uma vez quando ela disse "Don't be afraid of death", enquanto os escombros a cobriam. E sorriu com ela, quando machucada, saiu daquele lugar cantando pela vida. Num momento de inexplicável tragédia, nós vemos uma inspiração, e nós vemos que amor, existe sim. Nós assistimos pela TV, alguns assistiram pessoalmente, e com toda a tragédia, eu vi o mundo se ver, como a muito tempo não se via, como iguais; humanos. Como aquele que podia estar lá, e como o homem que podia estar enterrando o filho. E depois que passa, não se consegue pensar em nada a não ser "Como eu sou idiota". Como eu sou idiota por ter reclamado em lavar a louça e como eu sou idiota por não querer estudar. Como eu sou idiota em estar sempre querendo mais, quando eu tenho tudo o que eu preciso aqui. E depois você pensa "Como eu queria estar lá, como eu queria poder ajudar com minhas próprias mãos".
Todo dia, nós encontramos pessoas com histórias que surpreendem, e todo dia, nós vemos ou conhecemos pessoas, que simplesmente não aceitam a palavra "Desistir" ou "Parar" no seu próprio vocabulário. E que estão sempre se mostrando mais fortes, e prontas para o que for necessário, não importa o acontecimento.
A verdade, é que talvez, nós devessemos nos preocupar mais em viver, do que em reclamar, ou do que desejar mais e mais.
As coisas podem acontecer num impusso, e aí, é tarde demais para prestar atenção no que você tem, e quem você tem.
O problema é só percebermos isso, quando algo que não pode ser medido em palavras acontece.
De repente, da vontade de viver por aqueles que não puderam.
De repente, somos iguais, braços dados ou não.

When You Have to Stop being Selfish.

It was so loud, that you barelly could hear the sound of your own thoughts. You kept walking, first puting your shorts and then your sandals, and when your hand was free, it would go straight to your heart, like you were holding it, hoping that this way, it would make things better.
There was something about that moment, about the look she had in her eyes - one you were already familiar with - that made you hold yourself in front of that door, deciding or not if letting go and leaving would actually make things easier.
You learn when you are little that life can't be seen as the way you expect it. That the moments - the ones that keep you going- won't always be there, and that it's something you have to look for, because if you don't, they will never exist. They will never be real. And that, in those moments it's not up to your want, or your hopes, it's about doing the right thing. And between the right choice and the wrong, there is a lifetime. And once you have to face it, millions of thoughts, and millions of minutes you lived passes through you head. And also the ones you didn't yet.
Maybe that is what made you stay where you were. Maybe that is what set your mind and told you to stop being selfish and do what was right. Maybe that is what made you look in her eyes, and made you ask your biggest fear. Maybe that is what kept you still, and what left time hanging hoping for an answer, whatever it would be.
While you grow up, you learn what unhappiness means little by little. That, be unhappy, means that there wasn't a moment worth it, and that when you look behind you can't see laughter. There is a point where you realize that today won't always be happy, and it won't always be funny. And how you hope to pass throught it, is up to you.
Yesterday may have been full of laughter or full of cry, just how it can be tomorrow. You will never know. And to say you are unhappy means that you do know, and that you can't hope for a better day any longer.
Unhappiness is unfair, and unhappines is real just if you want it to be.
After you asked her, after the silence, you left that room and you went straight to your bedroom, and locked the door.
You sat in your bed, and you started trying to get your breath back.
That, right there, is the moment you realise that you will lose your breath again, without even knowing, without even hoping for a reason. And that, right there, is when you see you can cope, and you can go on, cause after everything is done and said, you can still get your breath back.
Doesn't matter how long it takes.