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Old happy stars

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Do you remember when you were a kid?

And every shinny thing in the sky looked like a star?

I would spend hours staring, even before it became dark, just so i could catch the first one.

When did stars become boring?

When did i stopped searching for them?

I need them back.

I need all those stars i found when i was a girl.

And the wishes i made on them too.

And the people that was by my side.

I need all the things i left behind…

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Rio with no chance of rain.

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You just shaved.

You are wearing a white shirt.

You smell like the sea.

You throw your arm over your eyes and say it can’t happen.

 

Your brother is asleep on the next room so we are talking low.

Makes your voice sound younger, almost like a child’s.

Shaved like that, in the dim light, you´re almost a kid.

I had forgotten how young we really are.

It caughts me off-guard.

I put my lips on your throath while you speak, just to feel it’s real.

 

You say impossible.

You say something huge is standing between us.

What would we do? Where would we go?

It’s because we are in Brazil again, i know, the air makes you want to stay.

 

Rio is too hot, too humid, too salty. Even at night.

So hot it makes you want to escape your skin, your body, your problems, your mind.

 

You say something. You ask if i was listening. I wasn’t.

“What?”

“It’s raining, news said there was no chance”.

You smile.

 

You say impossible but impossible things happen everyday.

Just look.

I already did many impossible things for you.

 

The tunder wakes your brother up and he makes us drink tequila shots.

It’s 2 am. We sit on the balcony.

Everything’s so dark, so quiet; feels like we’re the only ones alive.

 

You say impossible but it’s been going on for over 3 years.

 

We fall asleep at some point, on the same couch.

My head on your shoulder, your brother’s on my lap.

When did you became my family?

 

You say impossible but it’s already happening.

 

I wake up first, we are so close i can feel you breathing.

 

Impossible things only take a little more effort, a little more time, a lot of plane tickets.

And two people in love willing to break old rules.

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Luis was born a painter (he’ll never know)

Luis was born an artist.
His fingers, like pencils, ready to live.

Except no one gave him a canvas.

The family business was accountancy.

His father’s hobby were fast cars.
His brother loved football.

So he grew up swimming in cars, soccer balls, numbers.
He grew up wanting racing cars for christmas.
He though that was all, he never knew.

His fingers locked up like colors on a box.
Luis locked up in an office on a suit.

His beard trimmed, his hair slicked back.
How could he imagine? He never knew.

And his hands that only learned how to make numbers wake up at night.
They open and close while he sleeps.
And he dreams.
He dreams waves of colors that make no sense, that eat him alive.

He rises at 6:45, to the digits on his alarm.
Drinks 1 cup of coffee, black.

Irons a nice shirt, drives to work, greets co-workers, makes a joke, has a light lunch, meets a friend for a beer, 2 beers, 3 beers, says goodbye, drives home, calls his beautiful girlfriend, smiles.

Then he drops to his knees on the shower and completely breaks down.
His hands hurt.
His head (that only learned numbers) has no idea why…

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How Carolina won the skirt war

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Born in a house with just brothers, the long awaited princess, Carolina was born to wear skirts.

Her room a pink marshmallow, her hair long, her opinions wrapped in ribbons and bows and tossed away.

Born in a house with just brothers Carolina had to fight and yell just to be given the same amount of waffles.

 

She had to fight to be given racing cars for christmas too.

She had to fight to be part of the football team.

She had to start a revolution to be batman for halloween.

 

But with a skirt…

She was Batman with a skirt.

And the only football player with a skirt, and the second best at karate, in a skirt.

Because, well, skirts are cute and she loves them.

What’s that has anything to do with anything?

 

Carolina, now 23, runs marathons in skirts.

 

Born in a house with just brothers, Carolina was made to wear skirts.

But instead of letting skirts change her, this fighter,

she went and changed skirts.

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Luiza and the list of “afraids”

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Luiza is afraid of exactly 83 things, they’ve counted. Her and Ruy, her brother.

Luiza is afraid of snakes, spiders, dogs (big ones), the noise the refrigerator makes at night.

Luiza was not afraid of her parents splitting up, but still it happened.

Luiza is still not afraid of her family being broken, because she doesn’t know.

 

Luiza is afraid of getting fat, of the world ending, of hidden murderers on the backyard.

Ruy is afraid of Luiza hearing the fights, so he puts on music, he reads her stories.

Luiza is afraid of taking bad pictures, of eating alone, of failing math.

Ruy is afraid of Luiza growing up before her time, so he turns her around and takes her out.

 

And they walk, until they are tired, until she, with her head on his shoulder says: “Let’s go home”

He knows they are still fighting; he says one more lap, you see… i’m afraid of this road, let’s take the long one.

She wraps her skinny arms around him and says “I’ll protect you”

Not knowing that the armor around her is actually made of his skin.

 

Luiza is afraid of 83 things.

Ruy is afraid of one.

 

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The man who won’t talk to me.

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He won’t talk to me because i won’t talk to him.

We’re doing it again.

There was a reason when i was 15, another when i was 18, small ones, big ones. Some go on for years, some only for hours. Some were broken only by funerals or weddings, some were my fault, some his, some i forgot, some still hurt.

Everything gets more dramatic by the fact that i hate talking, and he hates talking.

He sits down for dinner at 8, alone.

I sit down for dinner at 8, alone.

But are we ever alone, really?

The man who won’t talk to me was there during huracans, storms, earthquakes, hospitals, break-ups,

He never said a word, but he was always there in the middle, like a tall, dark haired ghost in a trench coat.

The man who won’t talk to me has no mouth but the most important things need no words.

And we now sit on the same white room on oppossite sides of the bench and we have no idea what to say.

-The weather? fine.

And we play with our hands, with our hair, we stare at the walls, at our phones.

-My kid? She’s doing great, she’s amazing. But i fucked up again, i need help.

-No problem.

I turn my head so he doesn’t see i’m about to cry, but he’s not staring anyway.

His head is also turned the other way.

The man who won’t talk to me never said a word, but he taught me everything.

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Surviving a break-up, for dummies.

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Pretend you love yourself

So you are now alone again, let’s not kid ourselves, the first thing everyone is going to tell you is that he broke up with you because you were too good for him, but truth be told you don’t feel any good at all, you feel like a mound of dirt, and you probably look like one too, showering, shaving and brushing your hair having fallen to the bottom of the list after someone ripped out your heart and jumped on it.

People will try to get you out of the house, get you out drinking, get you to meet new people… You know what? If you don’t want to, don’t listen to them, be the dirt, become one with the mound, roll around in it. Build a bed and stay in the rock bottom hotel as long as you need to.

Take a day off, or a week, or two, and do nothing but cry and eat pizza, don’t change your clothes, don’t change your sheets, take your time, don’t listen to anybody else.

Come out a month later breaded in mud, but happy, ready. Knowing full well that when the dirt washes off, most of your pain will go away with it.

Play the ex is lava

So you are not together anymore but you still stalk him on all the possible social networks, you ask about him, you call your friends in common and frequent the places you all used to go. STOP IT. Get away, imagine he was a deadly and terrible disease called

The ex is lava and if you run in to him you lose.

The ex is lava and this kind of lava already burned you once, so don’t be an idiot, stay away.

Became a murderer

You know that tiny little light at the bottom of your heart? The sweet little voice refusing to shut up saying again and again that maybe, maybe this is not the end. Maybe in a few months or years he’ll come back, maybe you only need sometime and this can still work out. Well, kill it.

Kill the last little bit of hope,  turn off all the lights and stay in the dark, only that way you’ll find a new way to light yourself, kill the last little heart floating around waiting for his birthday so you’ll have a good excuse to call him, or you’ll never move on.

Until you do that you still belong to him.

Be honest

Don’t feel better with stupid ideas, don’t listen to the pre-programmed speeches friends make at moments like this. He didn’t lose his only chance at being happy. He did not leave you for someone worst. You will not find someone better than him. You will find someone better FOR YOU. Don’t let stupid comments like “He didn’t deserve you” get to your head.

Accept the fact that no one is better than anyone, what happened to you is the most common thing in the planet.  Your pain is no bigger or smaller than the pain of everyone else, and is in fact a cable that will, in time connect you to other people around you. And give you an extra strength to take care of yourself and others.

No one deserves, or doesn’t deserve somebody else, we simply fit or we don’t, don’t try to fit a square in the place of a circle. It will never work, don’t waste more time.

We are all simply human beings trying our best, trying to find someone wearing our same t-shirt.

Don’t use your pain as a weapon to hate someone else, use it as a stair to see beyond yourself.

Manage the spaces.

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The empty space in your heart, in your bed, in your social life, in the sink where his shaving cream used to me, in the fridge, in your wallet. Fill the ones you can, the ones you instantly can, the ones that hurt the most, fill them fast, with the first thing you can.

Fill them with anything on sight that seems appealing to you, with friends, ice cream, tequila, chocolate, movies, with work, with knitting classes, learn a new language, plant some pretty flowers on your front yard. Seriously, anything, make some time, so you can deal with the holes one by one, you finish one, you open the next one, don’t leave them all open at one, you’ll drown.

What was it?

When we are kids and we are lonely we make up imaginary friends, when we grow up and we are lonely we make up imaginary love.

Real love blinds people, fake love gives us a third eye that makes us see things were there is nothing. Makes us over-analyze 3 word messages, obsess over a picture, cry over an unanswered call.

This was probably not love, but love’s evil twin brother, Kevin. Kevin looks a lot like love and even acts like him but he has a secret agenda. One that changes every few second and inside every person´s heart.

Maybe all of this was simply Kevin making you a joke.

You can’t be sick of love when there was no love to get you sick on the first place. So, go look for the real one, you got your heart broke for a stupid reason, now let’s get it real broken, real destroyed, for the good one.

Now that you feel better, get your head up, and let’s do it all over again.Image

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An accident, two, three.

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You
Me
A mysterious seed
We planted it.

You
Me
Around the growing tree
Us.

Us
A glass of vodka
Love and it’s cousins
Life
A kid
You, me, her
Us

You
Me
A car accident
A lot of space between us.

You
Me
A life accident
A lot of noise around us.

You
Me
Right
Left.

A dead end.

You
Me
A love accident
A funeral.

Us
A mistake
A beautiful one.

Life.

Scotch tape people

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I throw and break things when i’m angry; then immediately feel bad and try to glue them back together a second later.

That’s why i’m glad people are not breakable.

I could just see the people who have loved me walking around cracked and full of scotch tape; and me staying around them forever out of guilt for the pieces i could never put back…

Bruna’s doll house

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Bruna stopped believing on people the night her mother died.

Humans were so fragile; she needed something real to hold.

Her father stopped believing on families the night his wife died.

He looked down at the messy blonde child and couldn’t find any place to fit her in now that the mother was gone.

He hired a nanny and moved on.

 

Growing up with no heroes around Bruna began to believe on things.

She doesn’t feel anymore.

She has.

She has the nicest house, she has concert tickets, she has Channel.

These things she can count, touch, she can understand.

 

Her father spends some nights talking to an old wedding picture:

“I miss you.

We need to talk about your daughter.

We need to talk about the things i know nothing about”

But morning comes and his old pain gets drowned on his pills and endless meetings.

 

They only face each other at breakfast.

Both of them sit very straight, wearing white and gray.

They are quiet, they rarely eat.

Two survivors of very different wars.

 

She scrolls through her cell phone, he reads the news.

They hold on to the things on their hands.

Not noticing the person in front is barely holding on to life.

About the other one

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You call him selfish, you call him bitter.

You only talk to him once or twice a year.

You call him brother.

But you two don’t have the same dad.

You have a dad who raised a perfect family in a nice, small white house.

You have a father who still sends your mother flowers for no reason, parents who dress up and date every other weekend, a younger sister that’s your best friend.

He has a dad who left.

A calendar dad, with arranged dates, hours, minutes.

His mom taught him to shave.
(But it was not the same, he never got it right)

And he wanted to love you, he really did, because you were just a little baby, the first baby he ever held.

But he started getting less visits and less gifts after you came along.

And kids understand with feelings, not reasons.
You woke up an angry voice inside him, one he’d never heard before.

You want a brother because it would be another sprinkle to add to your life. Fun! A bigger family. Another seat at Christmas dinner, another pair of lips to make laugh.

He wants a brother to explain some of the empty spaces that don’t let his life add up.

And you’re never going to be what he needs, and he’ll never be what you need.

Still you hug every holiday, you exchange presents, you call each other brother.

But you might as well be strangers, that simply happened to look alike.