Eu espero na porta como se eu fosse apenas uma criança

i’ve had it explained to me, as a child, about vision loss (or never having it at all). it wasn’t a condition i shared, still, as kid, i could only fully understand something by relating to it. so, whenever my eyes would be too full of all the things i wish i couldn’t relate to so easily, i would pick up my diary and write. i’ve had this pink cd player for as long as i can remember, decorated with all of my favorite stickers, and i’d played the saddest songs a child could possibly listen to. as i outgrew the cd player, the stickers obsession and the childish metaphors, i claimed to have forgotten all about the blindness that only infuriating losses can unleash. i have never outgrew the sadness, though. a few days after my 24th birthday, while listening to flatsound on spotify, i’ve opened up my notes app (i still maintain a diary, but a phone’s light’s much easier to hide at 1am). i’ve made my greatest work while terribly sobbing and more than partially blind by it. temporarily, the tears wouldn’t allowed me to see. permanently, i’ve gathered that there are all this parts of life i’ll never be allowed to comprehend, since i cannot face the depth of its colors - some happinesses might have a translation in braille, but never in poetry. you know, this language us blindingly sad writers speak in.

i read about how love should be cautious. how it should test its waters before a deep dive. i strongly disagree. rationally, of course, i can understand why someone would think so. i’ve had my heart broken - seriously broken, so i do get it. however, isn’t it cuffing up love a stupid misguided attempt to control destiny? furthermore, can one truly love if it happens caged? if it means calculated steps in order to protect a heart that has been made to half-feel its feelings? no, no. it can’t be this. all this suffering and longing and aching and saudade - it has to symbolize something more. love has to surpass the fear of it all. ultimately, love is only love if it is truly above the terror of losing a loved one (true love will make you at piece with, at least, holding on to the careless happily lived memories you created before the end).

i’m strong and resilient and i love myself but i do miss being soft and held and praised. i’m still being touched but i miss craving someone’s touch so much it would make me happy when it happened. i’m not celibate, but i’m just not feeling it like he’d make me feel. fuck. shit. i can’t have him back, nor do i want to. in the end, it was just not good enough. i needed it louder, he needed it hidden. but damn. will i ever find connection like that again? will i spend the rest of my life looking for him in someone else? now, that’s just unfair.

is it that you’re the love of my life and i’m scared we won’t find each other again,

“It's just that I belong in the quietest quiet, that's what's right for me.”

Na minha opinião não existe nada mais íntimo entre duas pessoas do que dormir junto. No sentido mais literal da expressão. Apenas dois corpos agarrados e confortáveis na presença do outro, trocando carícias enquanto apreciam o silêncio do ambiente até pegar no sono. Sem beijos, sem sexo, sem álcool, sem segundas intenções ou lembranças do mundo lá fora. Ambos no ápice da paz e segurança. Com a voz rouca por causa do sono, o rosto inchado, olhos se abrindo, um belo descanso e se você tiver muita sorte: um sorriso tranquilo. Enquanto o sexo é carnal, dormir junto é conexão. E não há intimidade maior do que isto.