Walking in a straight line was never really her style. Lines get blurry way too often, and she can't seem to think straight anymore. That was supposed to be a quiet night, one more night to fall asleep feeling lonely and tired. That's when it all kicks in - the hopes, the dreams, the fantasies. "I'm all grown up now", she thought. "I don't have time for this". Except she did, so she sat down and she started to write. And so the story goes. 

She missed him. God, she missed him too much. It all started way before that night, when a few years ago she fell deeply in love, and didn't know which way to turn. Her mind was spinning, lost deep in thought as she tried to remember everything. How it began, the kisses, the heartache, the end. When he left, he left that amazing smell behind to cope with the loss and the caraphernelia was making her sick. She breathed. Everything was okay. 

You see, this has started way too long ago, and her silly little heart was nowhere near ready. That afternoon she remembered dearly, that's where it all began. A walk at that amazing city and a kiss with a breathtaking view. Days went on and on. After that he just... Vanished. Like time, disappeared without saying goodbye. And, just like that, she got lost in the pain and sorrow of being left alone. Her heart got ripped and torned apart by the choices he made. But who could blame him ? The temptation was right at his door while she was away and another got naked in his bed. 

So she moved on. He didn't call, didn't text. And she found the wonders of the so called benefits - don't ask, don't tell. Just a pile of clothes on the floor and two naked bodies wherever your imagination leads you to. Still she felt empty and alone. As she remembered all of this, she realized, all she wanted was love - movie love, book love, just love. Those four little words form a word so powerful and at the same time so meaningless.

That night, she couldn't care less. Broken down, she cried a river.. Lost in thought, tiredness took the best of her and she fell asleep, the question still unanswered. "One day", she thought sleepily, "one day i'll figure it out".

Her mind was still spinning. Of course sleeping with him had its benefits, but it also had its consequences. Like a curse of some sort, but the benefits were better. And also they came in a larger number. 

He was laying there, quiet and asleep. She was wide awake, drinking in that achingly beautiful man by her side. Those eyes, that hair, those lips. The way he talked, and the way he bit his lip when he looked at her. It was hard not to think about what was going on in that beautiful head of his - it was easier to figure out what was going on in hers. And that was pure, instinctive and awesome lust for that man. 

He woke up, she had fallen asleep. he looked at her, those messy curls in her head, the rosy, kissable lips. It wasn't hard to imagine what was going on in his head then, but he chose to let her sleep. He jumped out of bed, careful not to wake her up - that body was pure magic. Lucky she was, lying there, sound asleep. 

When he came back, fresh from the shower, all those feelings came rushing back. There was no more peace and quiet. There was lust, and fire. Heat and passion. By the time the hurricane was over, there they were: two bodies back in bed, the real world outside waiting, and none of them wanting to go back. Those two naïve, lustful souls could live the dream a little while longer, still off axis. 

It was just one more night. One of those nights she stood there, sleepless in the dark. One perfect night to dream away, until time came when she stood up and turned on the light. That was the time. That time she stood before that huge blank paper sheet, hoping inspiration would come at any moment. It was a stormy night, and her mind was spinning off axis with images of him. 

Oh, him. Those warm (and at the same time, cold) blue eyes, that blond hair screaming "don't care", that smile. She could go on and on, from those amazing eyes, right down to what went beneath that Jack Skellington t-shirt and the perfectly fitted jeans (and that was such a mouth-watering vision). He was, alone, the reason for that stupid silly lack of sleep. She kept thinking about him, about every detail - the eyes, the smile, the body. And every time she was left breathless. 

Every single day he drove to work on his Toyota, parked the car and got to work, in the same place she did. He walked, with that "don't notice me" look on his face, and still managed to leave every girl there sighing with the pleasure of that view. And the fact that he was absolutely self aware of that was something she hated. Yet, he kept messing with her, touching her arm carelessly, kissing her cheek longer than necessary. And that alone got her mind spinning. 

Oh, her mind. By now it was spinning with multiple images of both of them, in the back of that car, clothes lost somewhere. She shook her head, and the thoughts went somewhere else. Little did she knew, that naive girl, but his smile alone could make her heart skip a beat. Several of them, acually. 

And so it went, right until that moment he caught her alone and stole her a kiss. Or two. Needless to say that night they both ended up on his unmade bed, legs tangled, tired and breathless. And she never needed to dream about that achingly perfect man again.

Tenho imensa coisa para dizer. Durante horas matutei no que diria quando aparecesses, e quando chegou o momento senti-me incapaz de o fazer. Um simples olá não seria nunca o suficiente, era preciso muito mais  e melhor, e as cordas vocais falharam. Por isso penso, repenso e torno a pensar. Não quero que o silêncio tome conta de mim, de ti, de nós. A alma definha com tantas palavras que ficam por dizer, guardadas e perdidas para sempre algures no tempo e no espaço. Em vez de as dizer, tento escrevê-las. 

Não é por falta de esforço. Dói-me a cabeça de tanto pensar. Á noite o sono falha, e a mente não pára. As palavras de nada servem. Gostava que o tempo voltasse atrás, para que não fosse mais que uma simples memória tua, guardada como qualquer outra nos confins da gaveta das recordações. Ser mais que uma memória, no fundo. Dou por mim a recordar com aquele ar embevecido as conversas e os sorrisos, as bebidas partilhadas, os beijos e os abraços. Penso. Repenso. Torno a pensar. 

Ser mais que uma simples memória implica ter oportunidades para deixar de o ser. Sem expectativas ou falsas esperanças, foi o acordado. Lembro-me e mantenho a promessa. Isto é apenas a minha cabeça a pregar partidas. Sem expectativas, aguardo pacientemente pela oportunidade. Paciênca que é cada vez mais difícil manter porque a minha mente teima em alimentar-se daquelas memórias que a ti dizem respeito. Paciência que se perde cada vez que penso que nada disto faz sentido. Porque não faz.

Ponho-me a pensar que, afinal, talvez não seja assim tão mau acreditar. Já houve um tempo em que realmente acreditei, um tempo em que tinha o coração completo, cheio e vivo, vivo e cheio e com a dose regular de batimentos por minuto. Mas depois tudo isso acabou, e fiquei reduzida a nada. Sei que custa tirarem-nos o tapete debaixo dos pés, e não recomendo a experiência. Mas naquela noite, perdi-me. Perdi-me com o barulho das ondas e o brilho dos teus olhos. A sinceridade das tuas palavras. Cada detalhe, cada pormenor gravado a fogo na minha mente, com a promessa de não se desvanecer tão cedo. O sentimento esse, podia durar uma eternidade - a noite também. 

Olá não chega. Tudo bem e novidades soa a cliché. Quero dizer-te que sinto a tua falta. Apenas isso. Quero ver-te mais que dois em trezentos e sessenta e cinco dias, e por mais que uma noite. Quero, mas não sei se posso. Espero a oportunidade, sem medo de perder a paciência. Espero. Simplesmente. Pacientemente. 

Perdi a voz, ficaram os dedos. Esta é a voz que ninguém me consegue tirar. Já quando dava os primeiros passos na escrita, quando os esses saíam ao contrário e nada tinha acentos, sentia-o, O lápis e a caneta têm magia nas minhas mãos: com eles, posso fazer o que quiser. Dar voz ao que sinto, dizer o que nunca disse, fumar o que nunca fumei, beber o que nunca bebi, foder quem nunca fodi, ir onde nunca fui. 

A minha voz deixa-me ir mais longe. E hoje quero ir onde possa falar sem ser interrompida. O meu coração tem que dizer, e não é pouco. Está a ficar pequeno de estar sozinho e de ter de se calar cada vez que quer falar. O sangue que chega é pouco, precisa de mais. Mais paixão, mais amor. Menos espaços em branco, menos interrupções. Espaço, sim, mas para ser ouvido e deixar ouvir.

O estar calado, o silenciar sufoca. Sufoca a alma e o coração até mais não e o definhar chega mais cedo que o suposto. Pesa demasiado, cansa demasiado, tortura demasiado. O desejo de falar é tanto que todo e cada pedacinho de mim é arrancado, dia após dia. Mas calo e consinto, não porque o gato me tenha comido a língua mas porque i know better. 

O copo está cheio, mas o coração vazio. Só a escrita e os sonhos me trazem a voz de volta. 

Um novo começo. Todos precisamos de um, e já estava na altura. Mantém-se o nome, a casa é a mesma, e algumas palavras foram propositadamente repetidas para este novo endereço onde o Beautiful Disaster agora mora. 

Começou por ser apenas uma forma de mostrar um gosto e um talento pessoal, mas cresceu em mim e tornou-se quase como uma... terapia. Algumas histórias são baseadas em factos verídicos, outras nem tanto. Algumas são só produto de sonhos, daquelas noites mal dormidas em que acordo às 3h da madrugada e a primeira coisa a fazer é agarrar no moleskine para a ideia não fugir na noite. No fundo, sou apenas eu, uns dias triste, outros feliz - constantemente insatisfeita e em busca do melhor da vida. 

Sim, é verdade que a minha inspiração é bilingue. Às vezes uma palavra vira frase, e a frase vira texto, e quando se repensa tudo na nossa tão querida língua deixa de fazer sentido. Por isso neste cantinho tão meu encontram de tudo. Tal e qual a Alice no País das Maravilhas.

She kept thinking, over and over again. Memories and thoughts were running through her mind, and she couldn't do anything to stop it. "Nothing's wrong, everything's okay", she thought. Yes, soon everything would be better. But now everything was wrong. She felt trapped, lost in these four walls. These four, cold walls. There was nothing cozy about thinking. Thinking made her sad, nervous. Cold. Thinking was too painful. Yet, she couldn't stop, she was already too lost in her own mind. 

That sad little girl. Everyone could feel her pain. Exposed to love, over and over again, and fooled every fucking time. Silly, naïve little girl. There she was, lying on the floor, her blood dripping from the hole in her chest. Her heart was... nowhere. It was lost somewhere. Somewhere no one ever could find it. The house where she was found was rotting as her breath was disappearing in space. Time stopped. Everything froze. It was dark, not a single light in that place, except for that little candle. It was sad, scary, morbid. Almost like time and space were matching her state of mind, her soul. And she was dying. But she wasn't giving up the fight that easily. So she kept breathing, waiting for a miracle. 

And so she waited. She waited for what seemed to be a whole century. Until... There was a light. The door was closed, so where was it from ? "Maybe there was a broken window somewhere", she thought. She got up and started searching. She dragged herself through long hallways and closed doors until she find it. She put her hand over the open wound - it wasn't bleeding anymore. She was healing, she was alive. And she found it. She found some light. An open window. A new opportunity.