My god, look at what we are now - without regret for all the things that we have done.

It is not love, if love is cold to touch.
It is not belief, when there's nothing there to trust.
Could not submit, would never bring myself to heel.
Determination grows, as each truth is revealed.

Torn and repaired, just to endure it all again.
Without a reason, for my place in all this pain.
Though well concealed, the scars they just compound.
Until there's nothing left of what was my former self.

My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.

Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.

For the conviction, for the purpose found along.
For the strength and courage, that in me I've never known.
And if it seems to you, that my words are undeserved,
I write this in gratitude for whatever good it serves.

Sometimes I wish, that you could see me now.
In the rightful place, where I knew that I belong.
Sometimes I wish, that you might someday understand.
to close the chapter, and lay to rest the past.
But nothing would change, we make the best of what we have.
for we are measured by the actions of our lives.
We bide our time, let the future unfold.
Like immortals, in great legends to be told.

My god, look at what we are now -
without regret for all the things that we have done.

Thank you for all the doubts, and for all the questioning,
for all the loneliness and for all the suffering.
For all the emptiness, and the scars it left inside.
it inspired in me, an impetus to fight.

To all who stood with me, when we stood as one.
Thank you for guiding me, for bringing me home.
And if it seems that I'm obliged to say these words,
I write this in gratitude, the least that you deserve.

[And this, this might just be the standout song of the year - at least for me. Once again, the words of Ronan Harris echo exactly what is inside me. My God, indeed. Look at where we are now...]

Six long, long years of waiting...

Fuck yeah! It's here, it's mine, and I'm raring to go! Oh, yeah... I kinda promised to myself that I'd read the first four books before starting this one... Well, then. Time to get a-readin'!

You are my desire, I set you free.

The thing about birthdays, right, is that even though I neither want or expect anything, I always end up wanting one thing specifically, and I never, ever get it. I know that last year I desperately wanted something - so simple, and yet... and yet so elusive - something not material, something that only words could express, especially because there was a distance that proved to be too great.
And this year, I find myself wanting something similar, and again, I shall not have what I desire.

Impossible, impossible... Your love is something I cannot remember.

29/07/2006. Five years ago today.
I know it's impossible, impossible.

Choosing to die.

I am told by my sister that our father lies very ill in bed, in a hospital. The seriousness of this illness is apparently terminal, but for reasons pretty much my own, I cannot feel moved to go visit him, and see him for one final time, not even out of courtesy. When the day comes that he passes from this world, I am sure I shall not regret this stance I am adopting, nor shall I shed a tear for him. Too much went wrong between us, there are distances that cannot be covered, gaps that cannot be bridged, and feelings that were never there in the first place cannot be magically brought into existence just because. And, in all honesty, I feel that it would be an hipocrisy on my part if, and bearing all this I have just written in mind, I went and visited the man, and played the part of the weeping and grieving son, because that's just not who I am. I feel nothing for him, never have felt, I don't even feel sorry for him. And, even as I write this, I can freely admit that I am not opposed, in principle, to visiting him - it's just a matter of me having the proper mindset and the free time to actually go to a fucking hospital and pay my respects. I do have to say that should I go there, I just wouldn't be moved by the situation at all - even if were I to hear all kinds of words of regret, and apologies, and whatnots... the damage was done in such a scale and so long ago that they just would not ring right to me.
It is a very cruel and difficult thing, I should imagine, to freely and openly vouchsafe the absence of feelings for someone who gave life to you. I have no problems doing that, because I never considered that a physiological accident is enough to make one some poor child's father...
I feel naught for this man, and yet... yet I found myself deeply and terribly moved by the words of someone whom I have never met personally, who never spoke so much as a word directly to me, but whose presence in my life has been so constant and strong that it broke my heart in a million tiny pieces to hear him speak of his choice to willingly terminate his own life.
I speak, of course, of Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the Discworld, writer of some of the very best books ever written, a peerless wit, and one more victim of that ravager of minds - Alzheimer's.
In 'Choosing to die', the writer tells us with vivid descriptions of his own struggles with the disease, and how, like a carrion bird that delights itself in nibbling slowly the carcass of some dead animal, his own mind is slowly - and surely - deteriorating, to the extent that his short term memory is very limited these days, and much to his own tragedy, he can no longer write by himself - his assistant types what he dictates, or he uses a special speech recognition software.
The documentary focus not only on him, but also on a number of people who suffer from terminally deteriorating diseases, and who chose to voluntarily put an end to their suffering via the Swiss organization Dignitas. These people were of sound mind when they chose theirt ultimate fate, and as you listen to their plights, you can only feel so very sorry for how things played out for them; they genuinely seemed to be excellent people who deserved far more from life than this. Their choice to commit assited suicide, however, also serve to inform Pratchett's own ongoing quest to decide whether or not he too will make the same choice. His is a situation a bit different from all others, though. For one has to be of sound mind when one makes the final decision, one must consciously be aware of what he is about to do. Pratchett's disease will ultimately rob him of his mind, leaving him with the option to either let the disease run rampant and fall prey to the dementia that will eventually overtake him, or he makes the decision, while his mind is still clear, to end it all.
So these doubts, these questions, they are all thrown at us from the writer's perspective. Briefly though it may be, we walk side by side with Pratchett as he braves the path towards the end of his days. This documentary in incredibly powerful and moving, but it's not for the faint of heart. Things are said, stories are told, and we are shown a mighty heart-rending moment, when all we hold as true to ourselves is put into question.
I am coming to accept that very soon there will be no more new Pratchett books, I'll never read a new tale of Ankh-Morpork's fabled City Watch, never again be entertained by the raucuous Nanny Ogg or the Nac Mac Feegle, I'll never again read of Rincewind's exploits, nor surf through the eternal cold of space riding atop Great A'tuin.
What I will hold forever with me is the memories  that I have from having read so many times his books, books that I'll return to time and time again while I live. I will always remember sharing his books with the love of my life. I will always remember the thrill that is buying one of his new books.
The day may come when his voice is silenced forever, but his words will always live on inside me.

Wishlist

I wish I didn't spend my days thinking of you.
I wish I didn't spend my nights dreaming of you.
I wish that all the things that remind me of you would just disappear.
I wish it didn't hurt so much.
I wish it could just stop.
I wish I could just stop feeling.
I wish I didn't still have pictures of you on the wall.
I wish everything could go back to how it was.
I wish that you were still my friend.
I wish that thinking I mean nothing to you didn't kill me.
I wish all the songs that bring back memories of us had never been written.
I wish I'd never returned to all those places that remind me of you.
I wish I didn't go to sleep still feeling the nearness of you.
I wish things had been different.
I wish I could hear your voice, just one more time.
I wish I could feel your embrace.
I wish I could feel safe in your arms again.
I wish for lazy sundays filled with sweet nothings.
I wish I didn't still long for you.
I wish I didn't still miss you terribly.
I wish I could feel the warmth of your lips.
I wish all this had already passed long ago.
I wish I no longer felt my heart skip a beat every time I think of you.
I wish we could still talk.
I wish I could hold your hand in mine.
I wish I could feel your body next to mine.
And I truly wish you are happy. This I wish with all my heart, and above all else.
I wish I didn't still love you.
But I do.
Always and all ways.
Forever and for ever.
World without end.

Counterparts and bleeding hearts & all the things that fall apart for you

And sometimes, sometimes it feels like I had to climb forever just to reach the summit of the highest mountain in the world, and when I reached that snow-rimmed peak, the stillness of the vast white that surrounded me seemed to come at me like a hurtling, careening juggernaut that sought to overwhelm me completely.
My senses numbed. My body staggered. My mind adrift. I no longer felt myself as myself, but rather as an after-image of what I'd been up to mere moments ago. A reflection on a shattered mirror, broken, twisted shards as metaphors of infinite possibillities.
Before me, a wide chasm loomed ominously; as far as I looked, I could fathom no limit to its depths. Maybe it went on forever, maybe it was just an illusion. Briefly, briefly I wondered what dread creatures might dwell on those ancient and murky depths : eldritch krakens, the likes of which this world has not seen in untold ages, and long since banished from their oceanic roamings, or maybe the remnants of civilizations so old that the world itself forgot they ever existed.
In thoughts like these did my mind linger absently, as my body fell and arced limply towards and into the yawning maw of the abyss I fell. For an aeon of aeons did I fall, until at long last I finally fell from grace to wakefulness.
A dream. A dream, it was, and nothing more.
And as I lay in bed with my eyes still shut, I find myself yearning for a darkness that pervaded my slumbery descent - I feared, and rightly so, that the day's light could be too much for me to bear. But as reality pulls me from the last lingering strands of sleep, I wake to find that someone else does lie beside me. My mind still addled, I fail to understand what  this unknown quantity actually means. Intently I stare at this whimpering, smiling mass, and it takes me a while to realize that it might as well be nothingness, for it was not you. This realization causes and overbearing sense of grief and sadness to wash over me. My eyes gaze uncertainly at the carcass that sleeps next to me : looking, searching, questioning. I feel as if my hand had been almost forced, and that this undesired presence was the one way to fill a seemingly unending void left by your leaving, but the emptiness that still threatened to engulf all of creation was surely the universe's way of telling me that the only thing that could fill these abyssal depths, the only and right you-shaped form was your very self, the one treasure that would forever remain out of my reach.
And so I hold on tight to this thing which draws no feelings from me, cursing the day I was ever so weak to steer clear of it... praying against all hope that it will not be here when my life resumes its sense of normalcy.
My eyes, heavy with sleep and wearied by sorrow, close again. Just before I fall asleep, a stray prayer escapes my lips.

The Triple Gem

Buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Dutiyampi saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi buddhaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi dhammaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.
Tatiyampi saṅghaṃ saraṇaṃ gacchāmi.

There's no justice in the world, and there never was.

I have been following - albeit from a distance - what's been happening in the Middle East recently. Now, I'm not really a politically minded person, hell, only seldom do I voice an opinion regarding these matters. But I can't help but be wholly perplexed by what's going on in the region. I am unsure where this recent unrest began, but I understand that countries like Yemen, Bahrain, Tunisia, and more recently (and more notoriously, perhaps) Egypt and Libya have seen an uprising of sorts, where the masses sought to wrest control of their lives, liberties and destinies from the ruling classes.
All commendable notions, I'm sure, but... only a simpleton or a fool could (or would) believe that anything of real import to the people of these countries actually happened. Have people gone blind, or have they simply forgotten their history?
What is the one thing, the one comodity inherent to this region, that is of paramount importance to the great super-powers of this world? And, equally important and intriguing, who benefits from these conflicts, who has all to gain from all this conflict?
Who stands victorious, even from afar, after all the bloodshed? Who has a history of deploying nuclear weapons and of invading sovereign countries? Ah... It is a matter of historical record, isn't it?

And speaking of history, let me refresh that notion : in 1953, on what became known as Operation Ajax, a coup d'état was orchestrated in part by the C.I.A., effectively overthrowing the then current Iranian government to put in place a new and more American friendly government. In1961, the same Agency was responsible for the failed invasion of the Bay of Pigs, as well as a number of assassination attempts on Fidel Castro.In 1965, a U.S.-backed coup in Indonesia leads to widespread slaughter of communist sympathizers, with a death toll of over one million.
Between 1967 and 1972, the Phoenix Program was put in place, a program that consisted in the neutralization via infiltration, capture, terrorism or assassination of the civilian infrastucture that supported the NLF insurgency.
 It gets better : sometime in 1969, one of the most evil men who ever lived became the 'leader of the Free World' : Richard Nixon. And under Nixon's authority and purview, in 1969 Cambodia and Laos become the most heavily bombed areas in human history, thanks to Nixon's illegal campaign of carpet bombing. More than 600.000 dead.
In 1973, the C.I.A. ousts the democratically elected president of Chile, installing the corrupt regime of Augusto Pinochet. Thousands tortured and executed.
Need I say anything about both Gulf Wars, and all the lies that the media have fed us? Must I go into detail about the excuses they've been scrounging up to justify to the world their next invasion, maybe Iran?
No, I don't think I do. And knowing all this, bearing all this in mind... what do you think is really happening right now? Do you suppose  these folks in the middle east just up and decided to rise against their tyrants after decades (if not centuries) of oppression? Morevoer, what, exactly did they achieve? Did they fight for what they perceive as 'freedom'?
For, you see, Intelligence has indeed evolved quite a bit in these past few years : where once the world would turn a blind eye to the atrocities described above, now a more refined degree of subtlety is required. And it is ultimately so simple... why engage in direct conflict, when one can be instigated and manipulated to whichever end they deem more fit? That IS what is happening right now, and make no mistake. It galls me that ever since these insurrections began, a new wave of international activism and indignation swept across the globe - and this was translated mainly in a number of (unsurprisingly) violent manifestations as well as people spending twice as much time on the internet, in order to fully demonstrate how preoccupied they are over the middle-eastern plight.
And why? To what end? Is it that they do not understand just what these people achieved? Are their brains so addled by opinion and hearsay that they fail to see what freedoms these people now have? Well, let me tell you, they have now pretty much the same freedoms as we have, which is to say, not very many.
They have now the freedom to think that they're free to elect the tyrants of their choice, who will be naught but puppets whose strings are controlled by a very old and cunning hand. They also have the freedom to begin the process that will ultimately lead to the erosion and final destruction of their own national identity. They have the freedom of being host to friendly invasions of international conglomerates, eager to exploit these under-developed and under-funded wretches. They have the freedom to gorge themselves to bursting in the tidal wave of McFood that's sure to drown their countries in exchange for their oil.
These are all the true freedoms that they will ever have. To think otherwise is beyond naive, it's of a stupidity bordering on the suicidal.
Freedom? No freedom for them, no freedom for us. And don't fool yourself... do you think that you deserve your freedom?
I don't think you do...

I thought you were the truth.

So yesterday I went out with a friend of mine, and we ended up drinking quite a bit - beer, shots, you name it. Around two a.m. or so, we're trying to decide what to do. I wasn't feeling that tired or sleepy yet, in fact I was feeling oddly energized, and we decided to go down to Incognito and dance the rest of the night away. Cool.
Down we go to the club, the music's loud and good, we drink a bit more, and start to get our groove on... it felt like the pair of us really owned that dance floor. You know how it is - in these things, what with everyone being so crowded, you end up stepping on a number of feet... and there was this girl next to where we were dancing that I might've stepped on a number of times. And every time I did so, I apologised -- I made a point of telling the girl how sorry I was for stomping her with my exquisite moves...
Naturally, thinking that this girl was Portuguese (she kinda looked like it, but in hindsight, maybe not that much...), I apologised in my mother tongue - Portuguese.
Anyway, some time later I'm still on the dance floor, but for some reason - maybe I was tired, maybe I didn't like whatever was being played - I stopped dancing for a while, and took to the opportunity to drink a few sips of my beer, and shortly thereafter I notice that the girl had rested her head on my shoulder and was happily on her way to dreamland. I tapped her on her shoulder, and she opened her very blue eyes and looked at me. I said something to her, I don't know what, maybe something like 'Are you ok?, or whatever.
She looked at me and said that I didn't have to keep apologising. And this she said in English.
Ok, fair enough, but she still looked like she was Portuguese to me, and as such I asked her why she was talking to me in English. Of course, I asked her this in Portuguese.
And she says, she says 'I don't understand a word of Portuguese', in a very slurred manner, like people who are very drunk are wont to.
Oh, ok. Really? So I asked her where she's from, and she tells me that she's from Austria, and that she was here on vacation and that she'd go back home in a couple of days. Sure. I relay all this to my friend, and tell her that at least there was someone there drunker than we were... and with this in my mind, I tell the Austrian girl that she'd be better off if she started drinking huge amounts of water like right then and there, or she was bound to have a very nasty hangover come morning. To which she replies, 'why are you trying to kiss me?'
Huh... I wasn't, I was just telling her what she ought to do, but whatever. I repeat this to her, and she says, 'don't you want to kiss me?'
Wait, what? Where did this come from? What the hell? I asked her for her name - it was either Isabel or Isobell, one of them - and told her that what she needs is water, not smooching in the dark of the club with a complete stranger... And then she asks me, blue eyes and blonde hair poised in seductive mode, 'do you know how old I am?', and I reply, actually thinking about it and looking hard at her, 'I dunno. Maybe twenty-one, twenty-two, tops?'
'I'm eighteen', says she. What? Jesus fuck. 'Get out of here', I said jokingly, 'You can't be eighteen'. Now it was her turn to take a long look at me, and with some petulance in her voice, she said 'why doesn't anyone believe me? I am eighteen!'
Right. Eighteen. Sure. She took me by my hand and takes me to the dance floor. 'Let's dance', she said. Yeah, let's not... I told her that she really had to take it a bit easier, and start drinking water, to go to her friends who were there as well, that's the best thing she could do right  then. In all honesty, I do not know if she did any of what I told her, because I left shortly afterwards -- my friend was starting to feel a bit down and out, and I myself wasn't feeling that hot anymore... we shared a cab back home, and on the way I told this exact same story to my friend, who'd been a bit abandoned while I talked to the crazy drunken Austrian teenager.
Still, one hell of a night, all in all, and it does please me to notice that some things are changing, and changing for the better.