mood swings

I just waited for a drunk text message.

or perhaps a confirmation that, yeah, I failed.

But no signal. no voice. silence echoes. so does heartbeats. I dont accelerate, I dont move. I just drag my expectations to the couch and sink into german cinema from the 80s.

My closest friend questioned the other day if anybody has ever knew me. the real me. I didnt even know what that meant. I had to think for a while.

I'm still thinking about it.

It's been 3 months.

So when I put myself out there, bland and calm, just as i should, I find a bunch of childish giggles filling the space between you and I. And your giggles are not a reflection, they're a criticism disguised as an understanding shake of head. My giggles might be childish and you might see through me when you watch me blush and struggle with words, but they're all genuine and honest. They're me: I'm fearless of sounding stupid, because deep inside I might just know it's useless to try to hide.

When my sillyness comes to rest, and my past settles in the cheesiest corner of my heart, I calm down and manage to go fishing for the deepest of thoughts. I'm too childish for grown up talks, but too old for stupid mind games.

I bring the bravery out of knowing I'm ok.

I'm just ok, kid.

where do i start?

Inevitably, the success to deliver a message comes from communicating properly. Which is a skill I don't possess.

I've tried, so far and in no particular order:

words,
images,
drawings,
doodles (oh wait, that WAS my attempt at drawing),
screaming,
singing,
mimics (very occasionally)
and some physical interaction (sometimes, when appropriate).

it doesn't help to have a thousand thoughts per minute. but hey.

Ok, maybe it is wrong. All interaction can be a distraction and you get a blurry view of your "oh-so-clear" intention, slowly blending in with the minors and majors of superficial and realistic ideas and yadda yadda.

My concern at the moment is my sanity. as it has always been.

paranoid... me?

And then, there's the fine line between just really being human and not accepting it. I wish I could ask a portrait of me painted by each one of my friends. Not a mirror, no. A mirror decieves, distracts. it's a trick.
A painting or anything created by people who knew me, a clear impression of what i might really come through as.

oooh, so dangerous. but might be satisfying. And with the pros and cons of savouring the truth and honesty of others, what would really come out of me?

Two woody allens and a night

Awkward could be the next new “forward”, or at least I’d like to believe so. Shy spells and thoughts left unsaid, more dreamy than apprehensive, no time left to spare, and still, there was a night. A night of pairing tastes, musical and cinema founds and prompt matches to significant proportions. The music was good and so was the company. I didn’t even care if there wasn’t going to be a good end. I just enjoyed the night as it was. Nothing wrong or bad could come out of it, apart from the thought it’d have to end at some point.

Two strangers getting caught in silent statements. I reckon now, when I tried to start a sentence, my heart would race my brain and the passionate speech would come out clumsy and vague, just as probably I looked like. Or acted like. Body language was disastrously trying to be camouflaged by my polite manners so I wouldn’t scare him. Still, swearing would come out every now and again and I’d regret later, but forget all about it, all together. As the race inside kept going and there was so much I wanted to say, it was easier to imagine I was doing it. Because imagining it can make things perfect, by doing it so, I didn’t even realise I was just playing probably a role he was also familiar with.

His smile and composure. His precise and charming statements and I don’t really remember paying much attention at times, but I was there, all that time, wishing he knew I was falling for that night. His idea for a film, a silent movie maybe, and I didn’t need a second thought: the film was rolling and we were still discovering exactly the right words to say to each other. Very little came out, but so much happened. Some tunes playing in the background and everything seemed to be practice to the silent movie that intended to be subtle and insightful, just like his moves. I guess I really didn’t care what his intentions were, as long as they involved making the night longer, and ignoring the fact that, the two of us and our slow approach, was actually happening. The chemical reaction at the final line, heart and brain getting closer to the end, when the body stretches a mile, and catches up on everything, I saw two of the same characters finally reaching the high pitch, where I knew the night was over, but so much more was about to begin from that. Slow burning connection and all that jazz. I guess there’s still hope for the ones who suffer the same shyness we share.