I was yours. Until a moment ago.
I lit my cigarette and I close my eyes for a second.
The last warm rays of sun are touching my skin,
however it’s freezing outside.
Open. You are gone.
I barely remember your blue eyes.
I remember running my fingers through your hair.
But I am me again. The me I was looking for. The me,
you took away. With your sweet words and soft fingers.
I am staying me for a bit.
On my right, there is a man, practically laying on the
ground. He’s asking the people around if someone
has a cigarette. Someone gave him one. I wasn’t really
looking, I even had my headphones in but he caught
my attention so I put my music down.
– How old are you? He was asking the students who
gave him the fag.
– We’re young.
– HAHA, Do you know how old I am, come on take a
The students didn’t say anything.
– Im 147. You are wondering how?! I don’t look that
old do I.
I wish I could turn around and look at their faces but
he probably would have dragged me into the
conversation as well, so I didn’t.
He kept going on how he was following the Gregorian
calendar and apparently he had a birthday 4 times a
year. Correct me if I am wrong, we all use that calendar.
I tried to keep my giggle inside and not make a sound.
He kept going. He had a guitar and even though he looked
homeless, he seemed pretty happy.
The students didn’t keep up with the conversation so after
another minute he stopped talking. He took his guitar and
started playing, enjoying his cigarette.
Apparently the Gregorian is almost right. Almost. It is,
however 27 seconds too long, so it is off by 1 day every
I wonder what was going on in this crazy head of his.
2018 is already peaking. Only 3 weeks ago I had no idea
we would get the chance to meet so soon again. And here
I am. Back in my beloved Lisbon.
Warmth in January is an unknown concept for me. I need
We are staying at the Hotel Imperial. I walk into our room
and pull the curtains. A 180 degree view opens in front of
of the Praca dos Restauradores. I feel like I am in a movie.
3 years ago when I first visited Lisbon I never thought it
would have so much impact on me – Pessoa, fado, Alfama,
the portuguese sun. There’s a copy of Pessoa’s poems on the
nightstand. It’s in portuguese but I like going through the
It gets even better from here. Sitting on the little french
balcony while the sun is slowly going down. I can still see
the beautiful pink buildings across, specifically the EDEN
theater. I have probably passed this place 20 times but it
didn’t make an impression on me for some reason. My
name is Raya, means paradise, Eden.
It’s the small things, the coincidences that make our lives
a bit more romantic and magical.
There’s a lot I can say about the past year. However nothing
new for the people who know me. One adventure after
another. The only thing is that this past year I experienced
everything so different than before. It’s like I started over. I
remember vaguely my other life before this one. A few
times I found pieces of it, from the past life, but they seemed
so forgotten that I just dropped them and kept going. So many
first times as well as last ones. First time knowing me. I learned
to genuinely love, myself and others. I fell in love with Paris
again, this time it was very pure, very familiar, very easy. And
now I am falling more and more in love with Amsterdam. The
most peaceful moment of my day at the moment is when I
bike back from work through Utrechtsestraat, under a row of
Christmas lights. And I don’t like Christmas. I love the lights
only on that street and no matter where I am I will try to bike
on that street in the evening.
One of the best days of the year I was sitting alone on a quiet
beach of west side of Ibiza, reading The Book of Disquiet. Or that
other day when I was walking through the Tulleries and listening
to Rachmaninov, setting an intense and overwhelming situation
for myself. And then later, sitting in the Thalys and questioning
my choices, Simone de Beauvoir dropped it on me. The answer to
my all summer long dilemma was provided only 2 weeks before
the end of my trip…
And of course a good amount of lovers and a better amount of
friends were a constant in this year’s affairs. I can’t say I feel
blessed because come on, you get to choose your friends so
obviously if you choose poorly it’s on you. However I feel
incredibly lucky I met some beautiful people and I would like to
keep them for sometime. I feel like all these love lines should be
more poetic than what I have written but Jerry Seinfeld’s voice
in my head keeps saying that poetry is just a careful selection of
words, which don’t make you laugh at the end. And I want to
make you laugh at least a little.
As far as 2018 goes, I am happier than ever with the person I am
becoming. There are no particular resolutions on my mind. I just
hope there’s going to be good music to play while jumping into
new realities. I hope everyone’s year was also full of adventures
and if not, well then it’s about time you do something about it.
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.