I felt like a cheap poet, suddenly. I started to say what I wanted to say, dressing the corners of the verbiage with honor instead of meaning, with rhythm instead of shape. I started to move and no move had meaning, and while time flew by in the terrace with the view I waged a war with nothingness; I climbed a tree of despair to reach myself in its arms, only to always find someone else, on the leaves and on the clouds.

It’s been a while since I saw so many clouds in the sky, covering it entirely as far as the eye could see; the skies must be very shy today. They’re blue, the clouds. They seem ready to cry. I always have wished to cry on demand, mostly because I can’t cry at all in most moments where crying could help me let something out of me. My house is a very small one, and it once harbored six people, with me. And a dog, a beautiful dog. So you couldn’t really be alone in any room, someone could always enter it since every room was everyone’s room. So you couldn’t cry. Someone could see it. And my mom was always super worried, so it would just worry her and she wouldn’t let go. So I learned to hold it in. But now I hold it so strongly that I don’t know how to let it out. Don’t know how to tell me it’s ok, now. She’s gone. I can’t worry her anymore. I’m alone in my terrace now. I can cry. It’s okay. But I can’t. Through the cannals in which my tears spill through lays the desert of love, and the invisible force that pushes the flow of the water inwards is like the invisible force of gravity, keeping us grounded when our minds were made to fly above the churches and collide in the clouds against the wind in a forever motion of praise and unique unholiness, like a drunk bird probably would.

I hate what I just wrote, scratch that. Oh, God, this cheap writer. Take him away from me.

I have been thinking a lot about nothing at all, but while thinking about nothing I often curse myself and think of my environment, since it calls for my name when it stands all around me, sinking back to the earth while I search for the light. It was hard to grow up at all in here; you had to have this alien notion of your own ignorance and mistakes, which is a hard thing to develop when the roots of the tree of their lives missed the spots where I stood completely, as a nature of order meeting a drunk mistake.

Even love had time to sink into the earth, and miss my face and arms to be one with the worms — the eternal company of the anxious ones. I tried to write above them all, but they were endless unfulfilled spaces, just like the chasm from where I laid my head. These are the canyons in which we grow up in; empty, colossal spaces that we wish to fill to the brim, but are the results of the destruction imposed by the loveful tempering of time and weather. Those blocks of rock ask to be seen full in their emptiness, to have a meaning inside of where it’s overflowing. We can’t do that. Like a pointless fight with your internal clock, you must let the water and the wind destroy what they have to destroy, and create life where it’s barren and limp. We are phony creatures of the land, beyond words, casting a shadow bigger than our bodies, carrying a corpse to its resting place minute by minute.

It’s through lessons we never learn that we build our tents, following the leader of the song in the wind of the day. Whistled love is love at all, following the leader. How timid — to cry in truth’s bosom when you’re lonely, and the face in the mirror of the other when they come. “What am I still doing here?”, you may ask yourself. “What am I expecting to be said?”

Limerence. It’s all it is. We should all give up and go die in different places, as we’re supposed to do.

My family doesn’t have traditions; that is for rich families, is what I always thought. But I wish to start one, some day. For every life sprout or gone, a cloud will be put in the sky. And just like a rose, it will fade slowly and quietly, not before raining on someone’s funeral. We will cast the cloud and it will raise up high, and have different colors, and the rain will be deliciously sweet. And we will tell ourselves, everytime we swear we tasted the rain and it’s sweet again, that “it is Helena’s cloud again! It is visiting us again, after going all around the world!”

I wish to name my kid Helena. Or some other old person’s name like Elizabeth. Elizabeth has like a thousand nicknames. Maybe Lily, too, after my friend. Agatha, Dorothy, Hazel, Abigail, Evangeline. Imagine that. They would come out of the womb with 80 years old already — how lovely.

I wish to meet them. I wish I could see if we will meet each other at all, so I would stop my workings and give up from setting the Sun in my body. I wish I could ask them not to cry when the cloud for my body comes up, and tell them that I would be in every cloud in the sky, blessing their breath in quiet sighs in the wind, carrying their love as a matter of the land. Be one with me once, Evangelines. I’ll take you to the sky with me, one day.

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About the text: Too many people from my school have babies now, which leads me to reminisce about my desire to be a father. I think I’ll start being a bit busy in the next days (I’m doing a few courses on cinema and other arts), but I’ll be sure to upload here still from time to time.

Be sure to listen to Nightporter’s November playlist in the meantime!

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