I find myself constantly engaging with love.
I think about love.
I talk bout love.
I read about love.
Falling in and out of it. So different every time.
And quite literally falling in it.
Sometimes I kind of predict the trap and run away before I fall.
But I also don’t mind. Nobody seems to mind.
I love staring in people’s eyes, but I don’t seem to be able to look into yours.
I feel so shy at once. It’s like if I give you access to my eyes You might see something,
you are not necessarily allowed to see.
So I keep kissing you with my eyes closed.
Bukowski ones said that love is a dog from hell. To be honest I love dogs and I don’t
really believe in heaven or hell. But then again I am quite curious about how
hell would look like. Shouldn’t be that bad, right?
Tuesday night. Alfama. The old city of Lisbon. We are listening
to live fado in an extremely crowded restaurant, but that is how
you are supposed to experience it. We walk outside for a cigarette
with a wine glass in hand. Easy. Sky full of stars. I can hear the sound
of the waves somewhere in the distance.
Fernando Pessoa once walked these streets. This place stayed his world
no matter how far he travelled. The gallery across the corner sells paintings
made from red wine and coffee. A lot of the paintings are of Pessoa. I can’t
understand much of what the Mongolian man, the owner, is saying but he is
making us step outside to show us something. Apparently the man who used
to wash Pessoa’s shoes used to live next door.
Earlier today I heard the legend of Luis de Comoes, who was on a boat, which
crashed in the sea so he swam to the shore with one hand above water
holding his poems. Supposedly he saved them. He lived opposite of the gallery
we were standing in.
I live for moments like this.