Sinto-me um bicho de conta. Enrolo-me o melhor que posso, fujo de tudo o que é frio, quero fugir do silêncio e que as vozes cheguem a mim.
Queria muito ser uma expiral sem fim.

Terapia

Há muito, muito tempo atrás alguém me disse que toda a gente devia chorar pelo menos uma vez por semana... que fazia bem à alma.

A ouvir Diamanda Galas - Gloomy Sunday

Finding solace

Esqueci-me. Era tão simples e desse modo, simples, esqueci-me do quanto as palavras me eram necessárias, vitais. Parei de escrever e a ninguém importou, nem a mim. E esse silêncio, o saber-me esquecida trouxe-me o medo de me perder em algo que não conheço, que não sei descrever e por isso das minhas mãos nada flui. Acho que fiquei como um texto que costumava ler de tempos a tempos. O texto não era meu e intitulava-se "Morro lentamente" e eu voltava a ele para apaziguar saudades que me consumiam, para procurar respostas que sabia jamais seriam obtidas, para encurtar uma distância que não queria sentir. As minhas palavras morreram e não posso sentir mais nem menos do que sinto face a essa certeza. Uma enorme tristeza.

Sometimes it's just the talk. That shoulder movement or the walk between the bed and the wall, that enormous, invisible wall. It's just that. A word, a sound or an awkward but comforting silent look.
Sometimes it´s a just an inconvenient song that makes your head spin before your hole life hits you.

Sounds so FUCKING RIGHT!

I was born with the wrong sign
In the wrong house
With the wrong ascendancy
I took the wrong road
That led to the wrong tendencies
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day of the wrong week
I used the wrong method with the wrong technique

Wrong

Wrong

There's something wrong with me chemically
Something wrong with me inherently
The wrong mix in the wrong genes
I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means
It was the wrong plan
In the wrong hands
The wrong theory for the wrong man
The wrong eyes on the wrong prize
The wrong questions with the wrong replies

Wrong

Wrong

I was marching to the wrong drum
With the wrong scum
Pissing out the wrong energy
Using all the wrong lines
And the wrong signs
With the wrong intensity
I was on the wrong page of the wrong book
With the wrong rendition of the wrong hook
Made the wrong move, every wrong night
With the wrong tune played till it sounded right yeah

Wrong

Wrong
(Too long)
Wrong
(Too long)

I was born with the wrong sign
In the wrong house
With the wrong ascendancy
I took the wrong road
That led to the wrong tendencies
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day of the wrong week
I used the wrong method with the wrong technique

Wrong

Wrong - Depeche Mode

(ripping) Guts

"Standing here eating my heart out waiting
waiting for the nightboat to come
watched about a thousand swallows lately
almost made myself start to run
want to leave this

want to leave this
dark place until morning
want to leave this
dark town far behind
shaking loose this
gloomy bitter feeling
please don't leave me alone
please don't leave me alone
alone with myself tonight
(...)"

Heart Made To Be Mine - Deine Lakaien

WANT TO LEAVE THIS
WANT TO LEAVE THIS
I DON'T NEED THIS
I DON'T NEED THIS
WANT TO LEAVE THIS
WANT TO LEAVE THIS
I DON'T NEED ANY OF THIS...

Vou-me embora daqui, empacotar todos os meus pecados e deles fazer histórias de embalar para adormecer criancinhas. Vou-me enriquecer de miséria...