I started a journal. I’m thinking of writing a novel/novella soon, and while searching for tips for young authors some people said that it would be good to keep a journal, to keep the habit of writing every day even if for a little bit. I started it today, but instead of being observational like I was instructed to be I decided to ramble on about random things that I wanted to write about. The journal obviously won’t be put here every day since it will probably have very personal stuff (I’m still deciding about how many of the old the-diary entries I even want to keep here), but once in a while I may put some of the writings here.

Some of the entries have names while others don’t. All the entries have attached on their titles the time of day I wrote them. All of the entries here are from 15-08-2025.

There is a breath in the world called minute, for time seems to be the language with which the world speaks from. Only through time you can have a conversation with the world, even though humanity seems to only use its mouth to curse at the planet at the moment. But is it so? Is time a language? Or is time more a plate with which you put the language above it to eat? The world does talk, but if not with time, but through time, then how do we listen? Time seems to be the body and the dress, the sauce for the content of the answer, the pleasure as still and the complement of affection as well as the dust trails on the path of lasting grief. And affection to me seems like a wet drought, a sterile funny poison that grows and develops itself in the body of a memory nymph, which words and language are always the easiest to say but the hardest to understand. So the nature carries each leaf for it is its body, and the words of affection I spew are also extensions of my limbs which hurt if severed. Just like a body of breath — a green, green sapling — my soul screams when my leaves are cut for my mouth cannot express such a sound. It is from the world that I get my breath and the world feels my affection as I feel its soul tangled in peace in its pocket universe. The world can speak of love, too, and it probably grieves. It probably feels alone although it is always surrounded. Love, however, is a nerve shattering. It’s fireworks and silence, wreckage in the bottom of the sea of time as is the clouds that parade like clocks in the sky. So nature can feel love when it receives, be it a stone that penetrates a river or an axe laying next to a tree forever forgotten — as love can be confusing and preposterous just as it is on us, bodies of breath. To receive a kiss from the world — shall I wait? Does it know me from birth or should I introduce myself? All I know is it speaks of love just as I speak Portuguese, and in corners of spaces public and silent it will hoard traces of me like a present I gave it even when I’m long gone, and it will never forget me for I once was its body, its lover, its friend.

Love became the cover of the hatred, and hatred was a sensual decline; I didn’t want to be kind anymore. Or I did, but I could not. The anger was tender, it flooded the hairs on my neck with thunder, it gently pressed its chest on my chest. It pulled my hair, the deer lost in the shadow of a quiet room, the hunter hungered fits of flesh with the false force of a curse upon my name. Then it cut it, the strands falling wingless. And my force was gone.

I do not understand how someone can be angry all the time. These bursts of disdain that crash within me sometimes; I’m not beautiful at all then. No — I become weak as the Devil itself.

Agora devo ser honesto, pois preciso me ver em um momento de inocência para que eu me entenda como um humano, que nada mais é que um ser eternamente jovem e eternamente cansado. Eu tento voltar meus olhos para um instante onde eu não me tinha comigo, onde eu era emprestado ao mundo como uma consciência ilesa e lesada, própria para o consumo de Deus mas nunca do Diabo, vívida em uma morte de espírito tremenda. Eu era feito do que sonhos que você esquece assim que acorda eram feitos. Eu era imóvel, mas não como uma rocha e sim como uma praia sem ondas. Eu explico através dessas palavras que eu não tinha consciência nenhuma de vida ou morte ou de mim mesmo como um homem ou como uma mulher ou como um defunto ou como um trabalhador, logo, minha inocência é de ser ignorada pois é apenas burrice. Mas eu nego isso. Minha mente é fuligem desde que adquiri meus pensamentos, mas até em minha raiva de infância havia algo limpo. Meus amores eram terra úmida. Eu olhava-as e dizia que “seus corpos são como águas, rios sem corrente em outro planeta”. Acredito que achar que o mundo era tão simples quanto meus olhos tristes e pequenos viam era minha maior inocência, esta que carreguei em minhas costas até uma parte de minha vida adulta. Quem se importa em não ser ignorante? O mundo é tão infinito enquanto nos mantermos curiosos e pequenos.

FUCK YOU BOB DYLAN. Just listened to his song “Most of the Time” for the first time. I wish I could highlight a single paragraph, but they’re all awful. Fuck off, how can he write such a simple and beautiful song? Who gave him the right?

I’m sad. I cried a bit. Who cares, fuck off.

Credits for the headers:
art for the cover of the post — Mystic Multiples
1. Narcisse Diaz de la Peña — Forest Scene, 1874
2. Charles Ethan Porter — Still Life with Apples, 1886
3. Henriëtte Ronner — The cat at play , c. 1860 – c. 1878
4. Probably the devil himself took that photo idk