A plane crosses the sky.
Rain is pouring.
The train smoothly finds its way through the green mountains.
Gazing through the black-smoked window a feeling of solitude and helplessness swallows my whole presence.
The day is slowly fading into night.
Happy thoughts were left behind in the platform and are now turning into greyer ones that I’m sure will turn into black ones as the journey goes by.
There’s a ruckus around the compartment. Children running everywhere. Worried parents shouting to keep them close.
My mind, though, is being drilled with such a heavy silence that I’m unable to distinguish any sound from the outside,
I’m leaving.
Leaving behind twenty years of my life, for good. There won’t be much to miss. Repressing moments, people and feelings became one of my expertises.
It will be harder for those I left.
No letter, no reason, no goodbye. For them it’s like I suddenly disappeared in a cloud of thick mist, just like a magic trick.
My path it’s not uncertain. It was planned.
I’m finally leaving the heavy restraints that tied me to insignificance and failure.
I’m free and sad. There’s no safe ground, now. I’m on my own.
There’s a whole new world with wide open doors presenting itself to me.
Childhood dreams waiting to be fulfilled.
I’m starting new. I’m re-birthing from the ashes like a phoenix.
Crossing physical and emotional frontiers.
There’s a stir. It comes from my own body. A blink of the eyes. A yawn. Through the window of my bedroom there’s proof of a heavy rain. The lawn is wet. There are torn and lost leaves caught in the wind twirling around.
I’m trying desperately to grasp the last remaining ideas of my dream. They escape like water through my fingers.
I have an inkling feeling it was something important, like it was meant to be.
A dream, though, that’s it.
Rain is pouring.
The train smoothly finds its way through the green mountains.
Gazing through the black-smoked window a feeling of solitude and helplessness swallows my whole presence.
The day is slowly fading into night.
Happy thoughts were left behind in the platform and are now turning into greyer ones that I’m sure will turn into black ones as the journey goes by.
There’s a ruckus around the compartment. Children running everywhere. Worried parents shouting to keep them close.
My mind, though, is being drilled with such a heavy silence that I’m unable to distinguish any sound from the outside,
I’m leaving.
Leaving behind twenty years of my life, for good. There won’t be much to miss. Repressing moments, people and feelings became one of my expertises.
It will be harder for those I left.
No letter, no reason, no goodbye. For them it’s like I suddenly disappeared in a cloud of thick mist, just like a magic trick.
My path it’s not uncertain. It was planned.
I’m finally leaving the heavy restraints that tied me to insignificance and failure.
I’m free and sad. There’s no safe ground, now. I’m on my own.
There’s a whole new world with wide open doors presenting itself to me.
Childhood dreams waiting to be fulfilled.
I’m starting new. I’m re-birthing from the ashes like a phoenix.
Crossing physical and emotional frontiers.
There’s a stir. It comes from my own body. A blink of the eyes. A yawn. Through the window of my bedroom there’s proof of a heavy rain. The lawn is wet. There are torn and lost leaves caught in the wind twirling around.
I’m trying desperately to grasp the last remaining ideas of my dream. They escape like water through my fingers.
I have an inkling feeling it was something important, like it was meant to be.
A dream, though, that’s it.
4 comments:
Before commenting your words, i ask: Why does a nineteen year old girl from Famalicão chooses someone else language to let her thoughts and dreams flow?
Is it a form of anonimity, yet shouting to the world?! Could it be that you are like a famous painter, that paints a great piece of work, and when everyone sees "The Last Supper" when him saws the hidden truth? Or is it just poetry, a language that makes your words look nicer and softer?
Why?
And I have to ask: Why the need to understand?
English is not someone else language. It's mine as well. It’s not my mother tongue but it’s the one I feel most comfortable with. I’ve been learning English since I’m 9/10 years old, it’s a part of me and not just a language I can understand when the need to arises. I feel connected to it in a way I never felt with Portuguese.
In a way, it does leave me a space to hide when I’m actually putting myself in the line.
And I think I misunderstood you, where you comparing my crappy attempt at writing to famous painters and its paintings? *blinks*
ok. i've made the question. You gave me the answer. So, now i make the comment.
Still reading your work, fortunelly i am also portuguese, that i can't hide, because this way i can read both moments of postage, portuguese and english, and i see that you from the beginning started with tries until deciding for the most confortable language for you.
Very intimate your words, i think i can say it´s poetry without rimes. I am not saying it's a piece of art, i am not someone able to tell that... I am just a regular person, more mathematic then a poet. But even engineers have feelings and emotions.
You do well with this. You may not be the painter, but i can say you are the muse.
(: Thank you for your kind words and compliments on my writings.
It's great to know that someone enjoys what I write, although I never wrote it with intent of showing it off. I just write to myself. It's a way of letting go of the frustrations and worries that crowd my mind. (: That's perhaps why you feel it as intimate. It's my life, my opinions, feelings...it's kind of selfish as it all revolves around me.
Most of these posts are from when I was much younger and I feel kind of vulnerable having someone reading it all. And yes, I did try to write portuguese but it doesn't flow as easy as it used to and as it should. So English it is.
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