Sparkly Dancing Yellow Purple Moments

Places from years, many years ago that became other places, and other places. The stories are still there, like an afterlife chronicle. Scents, sweat, laughter, noise, music, Pablo Neruda's poetry. Not knowing what would come next is magical, sublime even.

The non so magnificent scenarios came later, with regretful scenes, mistakes that can't be undone. That is what makes me sit and write, and miss old times, while boiling rice. All too real. I close my eyes tight to the sound of boiling water and feel that place again.

A bus ride? It was a bus ride to promote a drink. They picked up young people from the streets and... we entered the dark bus with disco lights, loud music... Round and round Ipanema. Who was I with? What drink were they promoting? What made me go on that bus? When was that?

I have memories of bus rides, soap bubble parties, diving in a swimming pool with my witch costume. A floating witch hat in the middle of the night. Unreal but real, which makes my world mundane now. Is it a requirement to be young again to lose oneself in Van Gogh's starry night, in an enchanted world left behind? Where do I get a ticket to another round of sparkly dancing yellow purple moments, where it is unsafe but safe? Gone but still there.

Rocky River

A writer is born out of pain. And he seems to be constantly looking for it, so that the words flow like a "rockless" river.

Rocks are little pieces of happiness with a bit of insanity in a yellow day. They confuse the path. The water path, the tears.

Writers look for impossible love, impossible stories, a impossible world, so that they get frustrated, disappointed, and ultimately they feel sad. And a poet is born.

A writer looks for farewells, memories of what will never be again. They concentrate on the feeling that will never return. A moment lost in space forever. And a poet is born.

Writers spend every day focusing on the gray, on that day... that last dance, kiss, touch, word. The misinterpretation of the unsaid. The lonely walk back home. The rain that doesn't wet. The heartbreaking tales that never made sense.

And a poet is born from the scream inside. A fire. A tiredness. A gaze through the window. From the dark. From the silent. From the loudness. From a passing thought. From feeling hopeless, helpless. From losses and music.

Dreams that stay dreams make writers.

Floating

No wine tonight.

Soberness everywhere, yet I float.

I float to the thought of having found you.

A musical, a dream, thin rain, cars' lights, city lights.

I'm in your arms completely conscious of where I am,

whom I'm with, yet I float.

I float to the feeling I feel.

It's night, it's velvet dark, yet I see your dark eyes finding mine.

And I float to my insanity. I float.

It's rapid, slow, warm and cold.

And I float in London Bridge.

There's no music but I hear it, yet I'm sober and I float.

Our hands touch and I float, yet I'm there.

Holding your hand.

Through the night.

Floating.