37 bridges to cross

Doors to unlock

Crosses to bear

Tickets to ride

37 reasons to quit but stay

37 times I wanted to run away

37 flavours I have tried

37 years I let slide

37 places I could be

People I could meet

Things I could improve

Books that I could write

37 reasons to escape

And places to hide

But reasons to bear

Those dark feelings inside my head

37 years to smile but cry

37 years have passed me by…


How sad

How very sad

When two hearts meet

To then collapse

It’s heartbreaking

To stare at one’s soul

And see yourself inside

While never being able

To make your souls collide

How very sad

To brush another’s heart

When it is not the right time

When each is already taken

Yet you can’t deny

That in a different time

If that heart could be yours

You would embrace it and

Call it valentine



with your perky breasts and your curvy silhouette

and your fertile belly and your silky hair

with wine full lips and peachy skin

and open arms which embrace longing and sin


with desires and yearning pouring from every inch

make me your eager pupil

teach me how to seduce

pour me your honey, drown me in lust

show me how to drive him mad with a simple touch

lend me your velvet tongue

so I can suck him dry

and make him mine

and bite his lips

and feel his hands on my thighs

his fingers on my clitoris

going lower, sliding inside

making me wet and crying with need


goddess of love and of all sexual needs

allow me the erotic

let me bathe in your powerful scent

let me take him while he takes me

let us cry in tender agony

lose ourselves in frenzy ecstasy

let us rapture while we rupture

with all we ever feared


snap my rationality completely

allow me to go mad with desire

and with the friction come like fire

consuming everything around me

my heart, my soul, my body

leave me naked, bare my all

tear down all my tinted walls

open my veins and let me bleed

let desire consume me

let me love, be loved, be free

Art yourself

A series of selfies just because I’ve felt the ugly duck most of my life and wish to feel pretty for a change. Bless art filters and filters in general. 


The older, the wiser (?)

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I am 35 years old today. Looking back – and forward – I can summary my life in one word: books. I’ve spent most of it engrossed in books, books and more books, and I’ll probably spent the rest of it in them. A world of my own, as Alice in Wonderland once was. Is it the curse of the name? I do not know.

I clearly remember wanting to be a writer from the age of 7 or 8, when I filled a whole notebook I had with poems. Unfortunately, I do not know where said – or sad (?) – notebook is… It is probably hidden in some old box gathering dust and mold. And I cannot help comparing it to my dreams of becoming a writer… I had dreams and songs to sing, that unfortunately were postponed and thrown aside by many reasons, mostly by my own troubled mind as I grew up. They’ve never been forgotten, though. They’ve always remained here.

2015 has been the year I’ve decided to open that moldy box of dreams and confront many of my fears. Thus this blog was born. A means to a winding road. As I figure out my mind and troubles, a book is slowly being written. I have started my Imaginary Project precisely to help me unleash my imagination, and so far it has been working. It is a romance between King Arthur and Lancelot. I have no idea if it will ever be read or liked. All I know is I am committed to seeing it through the end.

I do not know where my life will lead me, or the paths I will find myself walking on. I do know I want to make this happen for me.

Today I have finished the landscape planning of my imaginary world, and I am proud of my crappy doodles. Because if there is something I have learnt in these 35 years is that I need to start being more proud of myself and my accomplishments even if they are far and few. Learning to live with yourself and loving yourself, that is what life has been all about. And it does say something that I have finished my landscape today, that at least I haven’t given up yet.

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The Tobacco Shop, by Fernando Pessoa


I am nothing.
I shall always be nothing.
I can only want to be nothing.
Apart from this, I have in me all the dreams in the world.
Windows of my room,
The room of one of the world’s millions nobody knows
(And if they knew me, what would they know?),
You open onto the mystery of a street continually crossed by people,
A street inaccessible to any and every thought,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and beings,
With death making the walls damp and the hair of men white,
With Destiny driving the wagon of everything down the road of nothing.

Today I’m defeated, as if I’d learned the truth.
Today I’m lucid, as if I were about to die
And had no greater kinship with things
Than to say farewell, this building and this side of the street becoming
A row of train cars, with the whistle for departure
Blowing in my head
And my nerves jolting and bones creaking as we pull out.

Today I’m bewildered, like a man who wondered and discovered and forgot.
Today I’m torn between the loyalty I owe
To the outward reality of the Tobacco Shop across the street
And to the inward reality of my feeling that everything’s a dream.

I failed in everything.
Since I had no ambition, perhaps I failed in nothing.
I left the education I was given,
Climbing down from the window at the back of the house.
I went to the country with big plans.
But all I found was grass and trees,
And when there were people they were just like the others.
I step back from the window and sit in a chair. What should I think about?

How should I know what I’ll be, I who don’t know what I am?