; love is fucking hard

Love is enchanting, mesmeric, teasing. It's delightful, fascinating, appealing. Love is beautiful. It's like walking on air, and all those butterflies. Love is all of this, and much more.

But it also can be a battle, a riot. Love is challenging, tough, and sometimes, it's painful. Like fighting a dragon without even a sword. Like climbing a mountain that never ends.

The thing is: when love is real, it's fucking hard.

It's not like a romance novel, a fairytale. It's more like a shakespearean experience of suffering through sweet pages of misery and joy, all in the same time, all with a bittersweet taste.

Love is not about finding someone beautiful, or sexy, or funny. In the end of the day, it all goes away, and you will feel drained, exasperated, and even look to your significant other can be a challenge. True love is getting past that point.

Love is looking past someone’s dark side. It’s opening up the ugly parts, the hard angles. Love is peeling them down layer by layer, and accepting each one of them. Love is caring about their past, finding out their mistakes and accepting that they are going to make new ones.

Love is sitting, waiting, listening, attending, even when you're not in the mood. It’s talking through hard things, it's having a conversation that you know that will lead to an argument, but you also know that you need to do this to overcome your problems. But love is still kissing them goodnight after all. And love is still loving them, despite hating at the same time.

Love is wanting to punch someone in the face, out of annoyance from what your partner has just said. It’s feeling full of frustration and anger sometimes, but it’s accepting their difference in opinion. It’s about acceptance. It’s about forgiveness. It’s never about wanting to always be right. It’s never about them always being wrong.

Love is living together, and the capacity of being fine when you're apart. It’s colliding next to one another at night, sharing your ordinary day, and it’s also about having your own space. Love is being so, so beautiful together, but it’s also about being just as wonderful apart.

The last thing love can be is easy. When it's genuine in existence, love is a big deal, and it's as hard as it's big. But it's true. And it's scary. Like jumping off a cliff. And it's even scarier when you and your lover are together on it for real, for life.

It's having big conversations, it's taking big decisions, it's acceptance when things get hard or overwhelming. It's about saying, and it's about hearing. It's about feeling. It’s about compassion and understanding, not resisting.

Love is fucking hard.

But the beautiful moments are more than worth the hard parts. And the wonderful and magical bits are far more powerful than the bad.

It's love. It's your love. And that's all that matters.

; you’ve chosen to run

Whatever the reason, you’ve chosen to run. Maybe you’ve let your fear control your heart. Maybe you’re overanalyzing, worrying about where things will head before they begin. Maybe you’re just not ready.

But instead of being honest, instead of being vulnerable and choosing, despite all doubt, to step forward, you ran in the other direction. You tucked your feelings deep inside and turned your face away. You poured yourself into other things, other people who weren’t nearly as ready to give you their all.

You walked away from a woman who cared for you. You traded something genuine for something that will never light a fire in your soul. You sought affection instead of passion, and found temporary instead of permanent.

She was ready to love you. She was open arms and a forgiving mind. She was kisses that tasted like home and hands that were ready to help build you into the person you were always capable of becoming — the person you’ve always been. She was tenderness in all the places that were bruised, kindness in every embrace, and touch, and sentence.

She was fearless when it came to sharing her heart. And yet, you didn’t share yours. You failed to see that what you two could have was something worth fighting for; you put down your sword and left her standing there alone.

You walked away from a woman who was ready to start something meaningful. Who was willing to stop running, stop searching, stop wishing for something perfect — because all she needed was right here. With you.

But you left.

And now you’ve lost out on late nights, arm-in-arm, staring at the stars and talking about dreams. You’ve lost lips that could softly press into every ache and teach you how it feels to be loved. You’ve lost a heart that was so willing to put the past behind and start over. You’ve lost a body, a soul who was ready and willing to be your partner, your right-hand, your best friend.

You lost what so many people spend their entire lives desperately searching for.

In a world of fleeting connections, you can’t afford to lose a love like this.

; às vezes

às vezes eu sinto que me desconectei de mim mesma e perdi em consequência a conexão com tudo de bom que eu tinha
às vezes eu sinto que me perdi no caminho, que me perdi de mim e do amor no meio da trilha
às vezes eu sinto que tô dormente e não consigo levantar e continuar os passos
às vezes eu sinto que tudo de bom tá escorrendo pelo meus dedos e não há nada que eu possa fazer pra segurar
às vezes eu sinto que tô perdendo tudo que um dia guardei aqui dentro nos lugares mais profundos reservados àquilo que teremos de mais importante pra sempre

mas então
a vida
às vezes
em pequenos sinais
me lembra que raízes profundas podem até se mexer no vendaval
mas vão continuar sendo raízes
vão continuar enraizadas
e vão se perpetuar
se for possível
durante a tempestade mais feia
se segurar na fé que temos em nós mesmos

e em tudo que temos em nós 

; frio

               Às vezes acho que me perdi. Em algum lugar entre o tempo e a falta dele, o tento, o vento. É como se eu fosse um barco a velas que de quando em quando entra numa tempestade, e balança, e vira, e bate... Bate. O coração é assim. E é sempre o coração.
               Me perco como se dentro de mim houvesse um labirinto infinito de caminhos frios, tão frios como chuva no inverno. Neste caminho, não sei onde estou, não quem sou, o que eu sinto... E perco os sentidos. E os sentimentos. E acho que nunca mais vou achar.
               Então procuro, cavo, puxo... E ele ainda esta lá.
               Tão colorido como sempre foi.
               Maduro. E às vezes duro. Mas ainda lá...

               A vida adulta, no fim das contas, parece ser um reviver de coisas boas e a busca incessante de novas coisas boas para reviver depois.

               Mas o caminho entre elas pode ser frio. E às vezes eu me perco.

; ampulheta (sobre eu cor e eu música)

               A areia vai caindo, grão a grão, e eu olho para o desenho. Não me lembro de quando troquei o lápis preto pelos outros, mas de fato, está ficando bom. Colorido. Cheio de camadas, de calor e de sorrisos.

               As cores brincam, tom sobre tom, assim como na música. E é assim que me sinto confortável – quando tudo se mistura numa coisa só. Quando eu sou uma coisa só. Música, cor, nota, traço, acorde, canção... Sentido. Sentindo. Ou não.

               Mais areia pra baixo e eu sei que está em ritmo intenso, mas estou satisfeita com o resultado até aqui. Os traços são firmes, concretos, corretos, um leve colorido montando a aquarela daqui de dentro. Eu gosto do brilho, do tom, do gosto, do som...

               Os grãos terminam. Hora de virar de cabeça pra baixo e começar de novo a contagem, a melodia, a montagem, a composição.

               E tocar (a música, o tempo, a vida).