quarta-feira, 12 de novembro de 2014

They call me superhero

Everywhere I go I meet new people, with new dreams, new stories, life events and a number of scars, good or bad, which compose each one's essence. No one's better than anybody, I think, they're all just loved and/or hated by someone else. And this is a very personal opinion, if I might add.
I've been writing on this blog for almost 4 years now. I think it all came up the moment I stopped enjoying the shadow of my own purpose, or purposes. Obsviously I didn't realize that, at the time. So, back then and since then, I went on and on about this and that, having me in some sort of a sad pedestal.
Well, those of you who still take time to read it (thanks by the way), might be shocked by such revelation, or not, if you could call it that. But don't, a man needs growing, and it takes time to stand on your feet after a few bad falls.
At the end of the day, what matters is what I've learnt. Saying this, I feel almost obligated to refuse my own advices, thoughts and any other pointless figures of speech spread all round these virtual pages. Still, if any of you wishes to re-read them or use it for some self-introspection, be my guest, they might help you as well as they've helped me.
I've used mainly two languages, not because I should, but because it made sense. Mostly, outer space was written in Portuguese, my birth language and the country where I've lived most of my life. The English part appears for many other reasons: the fact that I, somehow, became an ESL (English as a Second Language) teacher during my professional life; the love I feel for the language itself; the simplicity that offers on so many subjects; the expressions; the fact that along the way my BFF (Best Friend Forever), Ana, enhanced her own preference on reading me in English; among so many other reasons, including music.
Looking back to some of its texts, outer space served its purpose. It showed me that I could ask for help. And yes, I needed help! I recall a comment from an English friend once, who confessed she couldn't actually understand my feelings through some of the writings. She couldn't figure out if I was in love, broken hearted, happy, lost or any other appropriate adjective. Well, Susan, that was actually the point!
Personally, I think only the broken hearted can really write. And I'm not talking about love between two people per se, 'cause you can have a broken heart for many reasons. A sick dog can do that for you; The paper that got lost during a clean up. A broken watch. So many things... You need to be at a state of left overs! I mean, who can write about a clean table? But, describing a dirty kitchen, now hat gives you something to say. Obviously a happy man or woman can do it too, but it kind of misses something. The pain! I  believe that an ugly, rotten and used heart is a much better storyteller. But that's just me.
And yes, if you ask if I wrote some barely readable things here? I might...on terrible days when my sadness brought tears to my eyes.
This text is called they call me superhero, I'm sure you've noticed it. Yeah! They do! Not exactly by those words, but it gets there. Who? Everybody.
I'm sort of a likable guy. Despite suffering from a high and tangible envy attack from little people (and by little I don't mean children), most men and women appreciate my company. I laugh easy, tell a few jokes and I'm not that bad in maintaining a conversation. So, I get there.
I also have a few mentionable skills, not to be discussed here, obviously. And these are usually noticed around those BIG FISH friends and family. I love you all by the way!
Yep, they've seen me do things, you know? They know me. And, they call me superhero. They believe in me! More than I did.
I now realise why! I see it! I know why you were not surprised when all these recent past great things came to me. I see it and I'm so sorry for doubting you, for doubting Me actually. It took time, writing, crying, singing and all that jazz.
Some, others, might call me petulant, selfish or over self esteemed. But honestly? See if I care. I don't give a rat's ass (pardon my french).
Oh, I'm not that special, not more than the average guy. I'm just me!
And so, outer space lost its purpose, finally. And I could go on and on about why or why not. It doesn't really matter.
I'm killing a blog, for the second time in my life. Though the first one was at birth (Angola, de malas e bagagens), this one reached a reckless maturity. And so it's time.
Don't worry, I'll keep you posted, somewhere and somehow.

It's just that, I'm OK now.

"You have to look deep into a man to know the nature of his heart"

The end...

terça-feira, 4 de novembro de 2014

segunda-feira, 3 de novembro de 2014


I've got wings now. As pure as the gold in your hair.
And yes, I need to say it. And no, I can't just lay it.

Let birds take it, bees honey it and...wings fly it.
I'd write you a song and play it.

It's so natural, so simple to say it.
And though I don't understand it, I sure feel it and can't explain it.

Where are you now? Where are you laughing now?
In an Irish Pub somewhere? In a hotel room out there?

Make sure the cold avoids you, and the rain escapes you.
Stay warm and fluffy, soft and cosy.

And be good, just like you've said it.
Come back and repeat it.

Sleep well and dream it. Sweet dreams and flying houses.
Lucky clovers, green as grass and red buses.

Tender kisses and stronger hugs.
Sweet goodbyes and simple smiles.