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• My Life As Myself •

The creator of this blog is currently trying to be a proper adult. Here, they try to figure out life through photography, writing, music and the occasional existential crisis. Enjoy.

• My Life As Myself •

The creator of this blog is currently trying to be a proper adult. Here, they try to figure out life through photography, writing, music and the occasional existential crisis. Enjoy.

Happy Holidays!

São estes os votos desta blogger, esperando que os leitores aproveitem bem as férias e entrem neste novo ano em grande!

E com os dias contados para ir finalmente ver o novo filme da trilogia The Hobbit, deixo aqui uma das minhas músicas preferidas da banda sonora do mesmo.


Love & Relax,



The World In-between: Mr. November

There was this boy. And in this strange sad world, how is he different from any other person you’ve ever met?

That is not for me to judge, this is one story in-between all of those others.

And, to be fair, he was not that little, nor that young, most times. I guess he was never really a boy; there had been no time or place for that in past times.

But he didn’t really regret that; weirdly enough, it all felt the same to him. He supposed he was born far too old and time was giving him the days, one at a time, so he could connect them and finish the puzzle of his own self.

It was fun, usually, being the oldest mind in a room of puberty reeking bodies. That was, when his head was too busy figuring them out because, when he thought, really thought about the meaning of the action itself, what gave him that possibility, it felt like drowning in your own bathtub, the one you filled with all the negative remarks (most of them coming from your own head) and the memories that you “forgot”.

Nobody he’d ever met was that weird. No one seemed to be, not at that level, anyway.

Yes, there were levels. He had to classify everything and there were different levels, of course. Being that the lowest would be a hint of quirkiness, perhaps; and the highest? Just one of those lunatics at a madhouse, I’m guessing…but wouldn’t that be a disease?

He wondered a lot, and came to the conclusion that maybe he was the best example of the worst kind of weird. The ones that think, and think some more, try to make something out of anything and everything restlessly; and, let me tell you, locations, objects and faces are too much too bare if you have to focus on someone’s words. The world always seemed to be too generous to him when it came to realization, and people chose to see it like he didn’t care for what they had to say.

No one could understand, at least not someone whose level of weirdness didn’t meet his own. 





Love & Old Fashioned Pens,



Comodity, The Prerogative

It stailed away,

The sun is dry.

Clouds of gray

Raining backwards,

Raining backwards.


Sterilized fungus;

Moldy alcohol.


We were payed to stay at home,

Now we don't even get that.


Alienized agoraphobics

Caving to the shadows' devious smiles.

There are all kinds of shoes,

But nothing seems right.

Oh, Angels are uncertain,

I know my dreams too well.

I've seen the light, but trust me,

It's easier to live in Hell.



Love & Good Night Kisses,


Lucky Thirteen

One sensless being.

Two sides that don't quite match.

Three flowers burnt in his infant mind.

Four friends that left without saying goodbye.

Five teachers told him it would be fine.

Six therapists filled with tears.

Seven lovers - unloved, unwished, unintended.

Eight dreams that weren't his.

Nine pieces of a broken glass.

Ten cuts in his sickly wrists.

Eleven thoughts from the twelve poeple who realized his reality far too late.

Thirteen nails in ashes for the world's ignorant hypocrisy.

Love & Seashells,



Hot pink toe nails. Red lips with eyes of ice blue that could burn. Long streams of untamed blond hair dyed black, showering an amazonian figure. 

She could take us all out with one long stare. Your words and hateful thoughts don't matter, she simply doesn't care.

It was way back, a long time ago. The weather was warm but, somehow, it felt very cold. And it wasn't snow that fell that day, but the tears of a broken cloud.

She says she isn't lonely, but I saw no one around. Just a fast moment in time, playing so slowly, tearing with scratches her light apart.

But that girl's still running, denying that anything ever was, because she only likes to wonder about what will be and could've been. A dreamer, a believer, fantasia... She's bound to drown like me.


Love & A Promise,