Getting away

...The automated doors were closing with that sound characteristic of pneumatic machinery when, through the walls and the windows, a man's voice still managed to make its way to the passengers' ears. It was some announcement, carried by that gray-ish air you usually find in old photographs, but the voice was too faint to make out the message. He managed to catch some o's with strange dots hovering over them, as well as some u's wearing the same hat and some beta's. The flash of a chill passed through his spine, but just for a second. He then decided to leave the voice where it was --in the past, one minute; two minutes ago--, and continue reading there where he was. In that seat on the train, in that gray, washed-out atmosphere with that strange smell of metal.



Sometimes, I go to a dark place and I linger there for a while. When I'm in there, I don't like myself —in fact, I don't like anything at all; I awake at night, not knowing who I am, or why.

I don't like the dark place.

This post is not sarcastic

Not at all. I think, in fact, that the sarcasm punctuation mark is an extremely good idea. How often have we been victims of that terrible terrible weapon of evil minded people who, just for kicks, take advantage of our gullibility. The sarcmark (how they call it) is the perfect solution to that problem. What's more, on top of it being such a good idea, it's cheap too! 

Writer aficionado, this is for you! No more complex writing skills needed to express your sarcasm, no more creativity needed to it. Just say it, followed by a sarcmark, and your readers will know that you're actually being sarcastic.

Clearly, a good deal. So go on people! Buy your very own sarcasm punctuation mark*! This will not only help avoid misunderstandings, it will also take away all the fun to being sarcastic!

*Available for Windows XP/Vista/7, Mac OSX, Blackberry... Sorry folks, no Open source here, open source dudes are not sarcastic enough...

Note. This post was, in case you didn't notice, very sarcastic.

Xie xie

There is a time in the life of every bloke-who-writes --or at least who tries to write--, when the tediousness of writing for no one; the limbo of no feedback; the... You know what I mean, don't you?

Anyway, I just noticed there are some people (one or two), who might be regular visitors of this hall of bad postings. And I wanted to tell you. yes, you. Thank you. Thanks for coming by and visiting. If it weren't for you, I would write even less than I already do.

I'll take a shower now.


I am not a writer. I have no idea what a real writer does. Where would one write drafts? Does a real writer write drafts? Or maybe one just writes as it goes... 

I have no clue.

I might be an amateur writer, one that pours the occasional thought on paper; a journal entry today, an attempt at a short story tomorrow. But that's as far as it goes.

A few days ago, I saw some pictures of famous authors. Some were authors I like, some others were authors liked by friends of mine. In any case, they all shared this intellectual look. Disheveled hair, smart look on their eyes, a half consumed cigarette between their lips... What let me thinking: I am not a heavy smoker either. You could even put me together with the non-smoker group. The truth is that I'm no more than your average Joe. I listen to music, just as any other bloke, I dress casually --so casually that I am usually camouflaged with the rest of the average Joes out there-- and the look on my face is almost as absent as that of any other person you might find in a lift.

A random woman approached me today while I has having a smoke --the first one in months. She asked, without waiting for me to take my earphones off, if I had a cig for her. After taking freeing one ear I asked her to repeat her question, to which she repeated, do you have a cigarette you could share? So I reached for my cigs, took one out, lit it for her and engaged into a meaningless 2 minutes conversation, after which I wondered if she really wanted a cigarette or just wanted to talk to someone. 

Unimportant. I put my cigarette off, tossed the thought aside, and stepped into the train waiting for me to take me to my office. I put my music back on and a thought stroke my mind...

I am not a writer



Purple carrots, 

yellow carrots...

why o why?


Entry No. 2

I finished reading Dracula today. I loved the book; I know it's supposed to be a horror story, but more than that it was just a fantastic narration. Time to start a new one now. Let's see what comes.

Anyway, back to life. The last few days have been very trying for me. My mood isn't improving anything at all; quite the contrary, I find myself waking up in an even worse mood than the day before. I am so snappy that it takes a lot of effort not to start shouting at people or doing stupid stuff. Even worse is the fact that it's starting to get to my nerves that my girlfriend hangs out so often with her ex, which is something completely new to me, and very annoying.

By the end of the day I'm so tired of all this shit that I just lie down on bed, cover myself all the way up to the ears and wish I won't wake up, ever again.


Walking down the path

It's been some months now since I joined the unemployed's force. I've been struggling hard to go back to the old good vice of working for a living and getting a fairly good salary. All to no avail.

I'm exaggerating, I also eat, like everyone else does, and I have a little room in a shared house, so I have to get at least some money. I have a job, I do. I am officially a software developer at a small company based in some important financial city. My job, though, pays me barely enough to make a living. The constant stress of finding myself in a tight economical situation is actually my way of life now. I know not the tranquility that I pursue.

But why am I saying all this? And, most of all... Why should I complain?

So I can't afford traveling, or buying a car or a computer even. Is that really so important?

All I have to do to know I can keep going on is turn around and look. For it is when I see her; when I look into her eyes, that I know I must be doing something right.

If life can get as good as this, then it might as well get better. And it's worth fighting for it.

End of today's entry. Now go have fun ;)

The Builders

We call them The Builders, he said.

"They are, as you can see, pretty much like us. We don't know where or how they live though, all they ask in exchange for their help is music. A very cheap price if you ask me, haha". Thus he continued telling me about their society and their customs while I watched The Builders work. What a view! I tell you, if I hadn't seen them with my own eyes, I wouldn't have got the full grasp of it. They look pretty much like humans, until one realises that they are, in fact, giants. Now, that is very easy to picture, I've always imagined all sorts of things (giants included) since I was little kid. But to actually see one is a very different thing. My mind, not being used to such a view, had a difficult time believing it and it took me a long time of staring at them to finally accept it.

In the evening on that same day, I was invited to a small dinner party they were having out on some field. When the weather is nice like today, we like having dinner outside, he told me as I helped him carry some food and other stuff to an open field nearby the town centre. Sometimes we invite some of The Builders to join us. They love it when we start playing music and dancing, he said as he laid the things on the grass and saw the surprised expression on my face at the sight of four Builders coming towards us.

It was a great party, I must say. We had a simple -but delicious- meal and then some local band started playing and everyone started dancing. When everything finished, I went back to the room they had very nicely prepared for me, and wrote a few good memories on my travel journal. I hope I can come back sometime soon and have another dinner and see more about the life here. Maybe I can even get to talk to one of The Builders, you never know.

Am I?

I am kind of pissed. Truth is, I like her. I like being with her, and being for her. When it all started, I knew it was going to be difficult. The circumstances, we used to say. The circumstances.

Little did I know, it wasn't only going to be difficult, it was going to be painful as well, and it would test my patience. This situation has been taking the best of me in a time where I'm not at my best. I feel the unjustice of it all and the burden is too big to bear. My heart pounds with fury whenever I think I'm being treated like I am. My brows are permanently knitted and my face is that of a person in pain. And I ask myself why. I should be happy that she loves me, shouldn't I?

Then there are times, when I can't avoid snapping. I snap at anybody, I swear and I call names to people I don't even know, just because they happen to walk at a slower pace than I do. I snap at her too. I know I shouldn't, I know how I am when I'm upset. This is not what I want. The worst part is when I try to explain to her why is it that I'm snappy, or that I'm in pain. I cannot understand how does she do it, or why. But somehow, she ends up being mad at me, and, all of a sudden, I'm the bad guy.

Am I the bad guy?