There's this tree, tall and steady, made of warm welcoming wood, leaves that dance in the wind but never fall to the ground. That tree may bend but does not break. It will never break and the tree itself is unaware of it's own strenght. 

This tree does not celebrate birthdays. Time does not matter anyway. But it's that tree's birthday today. And my wish on this day is to sit underneath it's shadow from morning till sundown and let there be nothing else rather than the sky, the rustling leaves, and the peacefulness that it brings all year round.

So let's sit underneath the tree, and have a picnic today. Let's lay on a soft red and white checkered blanket, let's discover what the picnic basket holds and taste the sweetest fruits, foods that feel like home, and talk about everything and nothing. And let's delight with the chocolate cake. Cause there's got be cake!

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*[imagem retirada da internet]

«You cannot grasp water but it is inside the soil.

You cannot touch fire, but it is inside the tree.

You cannot hold the wind, but it is resting on the rock.

If you let them be, they will exist everywhere.

The faint blue light makes me sigh.

My white breath turned into snow and tears.

I could not let them drop and hid them.

Despit knowing that they will fill up once again, I am a fool who dares not shed a single tear.»

Alchemy of souls

At that point where I just don't give a fuck. Almost there. I'm not there yet, or else I wouldn't be writing this post. But I' on my way. Almost there.

E depois há noites em que te assalta um vazio. Assim, de repente. A noite passa, o dia chega, o trabalho, segue em frente porque tem de se seguir, e empurra, prossegue, continua. Mas o vazio está lá, a rir-se de ti. E tu tentas ignorar, mas sabes dele, da sua existência. Conhece-lo bem. 

Mas amanhã é outro dia. É o que eu me digo sempre. 

Something that once was. Past tense. End of story.

No point in asking why or how. People don't change. Their interests do. It's as simple as that. And that's how easily you become stangers again.

It was. Past tense. End of story.

He used to be mine. And I used to be his. 

When I miss you. So much. And I almost said it cause I really wanted to say it.

And then for one moment I wanted it to be like it was. And then I go to sleep.

Just make me sick to my stomach. And there are things I will never understand. Never.