I've always wondered how one becomes creative. I, for once, didn't really consider myself especially creative-- I always look for guidelines that will thereafter frame whatever it is I am creating. Until one day I came to the realisation that all I needed was confidence and trust in my ability to develop something.

Having that as a starting point, I started adding my own feelings and thoughts to the process. So: self-confidence + heart + brain = creativity

However, this also presents a problem: when it comes to writing, emotions play the biggest part. My most treasured writings were given light when I was falling in love, when I was hopeful, happy, horny. Whenever I'm down I write, but it never fills me up-- you see, when I notice I'm sad and depressed, it's as if everything that comes out is strict, blunt, real, but in no other shape than the one it already has. It's nothing new, just a reflection of constant depressive moments. And I feel like I can't create anything or write about something other than myself; I'm blocked and can't even make a metaphor or play with words.

So I guess the question remains and I'll also keep waiting for its answer. Someone?

Sinto-te a cada momento,

entre a dor que não termina,

e a esperança que teima.

Tudo acontece sem discernimento,

como a vida determina,

e o tempo intima.

I feel you in every moment,

between the pain that doesn't finish,

and the hope that lasts.

Everything that happens is undiscerning,

as life determines,

and time enjoins.

My first memory is sharing bread with my grandfather. In my head, he was sitting in front of me, in the place I have since then considered my grandmother's house, putting the bread on the bowl with olive oil and then covering it with sugar. I was coppying him and eating the same way. I'm not sure if it really happened, since I wasn't even three years old at the time-- he died a few months before my birthday. But I liked the memory of comfort, family and love, so I guess I kept it.

For years, from how my mother spoke of him, I assumed my grandfather was a caring family man-- and my memory confirmed it. However, two years ago my grandmother told me how he used to beat her, and then asked me not to mention it to my mother because she had never wanted to talk about it. And so I realised I'm not the only one using memories to lie to myself.

1. Having a hangover (which is something I'm going through right now)

2. Having a hangover from a relationship (ditto)

3. Margarine and soya chunks (all fake food should be banned)

4. Feeling that I disappointed someone

5. Feeling like I am not doing things right

6. Misunderstandings between people (just communicate, please.)

7. Unnecessary lies

8. Feeling lost (in life; feeling lost in some place is one of my most favourite things)

9. Finding dogs when hiking on a mountain (at least wolves and bears keep away from people)

10. Loneliness

11. Unfulfilled promises

12. Violence against people who can’t defend themselves

13. People who don’t respect privacy (like my landlords who used to sneak into my apartment, organise my shoes and pretend they were never there)

14. Going to the dentist (or every other doctor for that matter)

15. Spoiled individuals

16. Getting sick

I close my eyes and imagine summer. I feel its breath on my skin and as I inhale its moisture fills my lungs; my mouth gets dry and my skin gets wet. It’s almost an erotic feeling as the fingers of summer touch my body and my knees get weak, the shivers paralyse me and the drops of sweat creep down my spine and breasts in a sometimes slow, sometimes fast movement. The heat takes over every part of my body and my soul is carried away with it. I touch the leaves of the trees as its branches reach out to me; their trunks are proud, rough, old, alive.

My heart speeds up while my breath gets heavier. Right away my ears hear the sound of rustling leaves, too tired and sleepy to move but excited with the passing of a light breeze. There’s also the sound of an imaginary and much desired source of water, some crickets singing, the bees buzzing around, the crawling of a reptile, your voice, your laughter, your steps towards me. Summer suddenly gets quiet, hushing everything else around to hear our music.

Our bodies meet under a shadow.

Our mouths touch; your lips taste like the sweetest blackberries. Mine want to taste like your cum. Your summery skin is salty in my tongue, as if I had just had a sip of the ocean water. I relish on all the flavours brought by the solstice, carried on your body. It’s sour, sweet, hot. It tastes of basil planted and harvested by Demeter herself.

All around I feel the smell of life; the flowers are submitting to forces of time and nature and metamorphosing into fruits. There’s earthiness and dirt in the air, evaporated perfumes being blown around by the wind. Zephyrus is spraying ethereal fragrances. The scent of the jasmine disguises notes of putrefaction in the heat. I’m overwhelmed by all the feelings, physically and emotionally. The temperature is high and all extremes come together. We smell like each other by now.

I finally open my eyes. You’re not here but my third eye looks at you and I keep the illusion of summer. Everything is colourful in strong shades of green, blue, gold, red, orange. I see trees loaded with olives, almonds, carobs, pomegranates. There’s also a big oak tree, standing apart from the others as if because of its inability to bear fruits. They’re all under the strong sun and you’re walking in their shadow. There’s a turtle around and maybe a cat and a dog napping on a porch. There’s no one else, the summer is just us.

I don’t know summer anymore, I can only imagine it like you. I try to sense the season but I can only sense you. I don’t know why, we didn’t even meet in the summer.