O que é ser adulta? Uma pergunta que paira na minha mente desde que tenho memórias, decidi usar esta coisa maravilhosa que é o Google para ver o significado:

"

• que ou o que atingiu o máximo do seu crescimento e a plenitude das suas funções biológicas.

  "homem, animal, planta a."

   

A resposta parece simples, no entanto a mim pessoalmente não me diz grande coisa. Quando era mais jovem, especialmente durante a minha "adolescência" (e as famosas crises e dilemas tão típicas desta fase) passava a vida a ouvir as pessoas "tão crescidas" dizerem-me "quando fores adulta vais compreender" e/ou "quando cresceres vais entender as coisas de forma diferente", e mais umas quantas frases super cliché, isto na altura deixava-me com a impressão que quando me tornasse adulta ia receber uma espécie de revelação incrivél e que seria transformada para o resto da minha vida...Yeah right. 

Hoje com 25anos, a vida supostamente feita (segundo os objectivos ideais das pessoas crescidas que me deram vida e educação), ainda não obtive a tal revelação incrivél. Portanto chego a duas possíveis conclusões a primeira sendo ela que deram-me todos uma grande tanga e que aquela conversa da treta era só para intimidar. A segunda opção é de que estavam sob efeito de alguma ilusão deprimente.

Hoje em dia continuo a ter as mesmas crises existênciais que tinha aos 13 anos (talvez mais), e também passei a ter novas crises. Continuo sem perceber as pessoas crescidas da minha vida (familia nuclear) e a insistência das mesmas em quererem (na altura) impôr-me os seus julgamentos baseados em "ouvi dizer que" e opiniões alheias, insistência em quererem moldar-me em algo que não era, nem sou! Na altura diziam-me que tudo aquilo era para meu bem, no entanto não resultou, diria mesmo que o deu no resultado contrário.

A unica coisa que pude confirmar é que os adultos conseguem ser mais criancinhas e fazer mais birrinhas do que uma criança de 5 anos. As pessoas crescidas são más, julgam e condenam o próximo pelo que faz e pelo que não faz, oferecem um sorriso na cara e uma facada nas costas, são hipócritas e miseráveis.

Ser adulta é sinceramente uma decepção...

At midnight, in the month of June,

I stand beneath the mystic moon.

An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,

Exhales from out her golden rim,

And, softly dripping, drop by drop,

Upon the quiet mountain top,

Steals drowsily and musically

Into the universal valley.

The rosemary nods upon the grave;

The lily lolls upon the wave;

Wrapping the fog about its breast,

The ruin molders into rest;

Looking like Lethe, see! the lake

A conscious slumber seems to take,

And would not, for the world, awake.

All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies

Irene, with her Destinies!

O, lady bright! can it be right-

This window open to the night?

The wanton airs, from the tree-top,

Laughingly through the lattice drop-

The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,

Flit through thy chamber in and out,

And wave the curtain canopy

So fitfully- so fearfully-

Above the closed and fringed lid

'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,

That, o'er the floor and down the wall,

Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!

Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?

Why and what art thou dreaming here?

Sure thou art come O'er far-off seas,

A wonder to these garden trees!

Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,

Strange, above all, thy length of tress,

And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,

Which is enduring, so be deep!

Heaven have her in its sacred keep!

This chamber changed for one more holy,

This bed for one more melancholy,

I pray to God that she may lie

For ever with unopened eye,

While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep

As it is lasting, so be deep!

Soft may the worms about her creep!

Far in the forest, dim and old,

For her may some tall vault unfold-

Some vault that oft has flung its black

And winged panels fluttering back,

Triumphant, o'er the crested palls,

Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,

Against whose portal she hath thrown,

In childhood, many an idle stone-

Some tomb from out whose sounding door

She ne'er shall force an echo more,

Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!

It was the dead who groaned within.

Edgar Allan Poe

The demons toke my heart away

The mind...

What is the mind?

I don't know what it is exactly...

But it feels as if it has it's own dimension...

and so easily it destroys what's around

10 years together!

“But to die as lovers may - to die together, so that they may live together.” - J. Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

Twilight

In my nightmares

In some distant cold world

Brimming with vicious creatures

Hang in there

All of me

Fire will go burning through

 So peerless was the man

At licking the Priest's opus

That Kitra foraged accross the unholy ground

In a flurry of lust to pleasure and possess him

The insipid ´Cain, the Moon's slave

For Awan was too involved in the cult of the Sun

Pierced in bloody forests as he reaped for his Goddess

And ran with the brute creation Kira had offered him

Gulping for life

Cain, roaming, gave in to Kitra's Sin

But not without her spreading her smirk around his pulsing neck

His undivine attention won

and fangs came to grips

But no seed ever passed from him

Rather than breaking away

Maintain something hateful

I no longer remember the excruciating pain

I just blew it

I guess I need a reminder of what it feels like to be abused

I must have looked for it

It could have been anyone else's words

Giving my tears to no one

When I loved, I got (ab)used

The thoughts flow through my mind

Your touch stays on my skin 

Your hateful words stay in my head

I feel it sinking in

Here come my insecurities

I almost expected you to leave.

Were you really loving me?

Pretty toy

What a pretty, pretty toy she was

A doll, a plastic doll

So she felt like

A toy for men and women to play with

So important they were these big adults

Way more filthy than she would ever be

There was a gun,

And a hole in her head

She was a bitch, no more than a bitch

Death was the best she could hope for

Her eyes, her heart

Her mind, her soul

What a wrecked pretty toy