Shooting Star

2009, English Assignment on Betrayal

“I dedicate this song to Catherine, my everlasting star” said the voice on the radio. And then the song started playing.

Rachel stared at the mahogany vintage tub radio, not daring to turn down the volume dial down. Her eyes did not budge. Her hands did not twitch, in fact she was completely immobile. She could not move. She could not feel. Or rather, she simply did not dare to. All at once, the tantalizing song filled the room up with nostalgia; unwanted memories that she had pushed away for so long rose up again, drowning her in her dire past. The amorous lyrics whispered false truths into her ears, isolating her from the present, dragging her, forcing her to remember the bitter betrayal.

It was five months ago, to the date. Five months ago and it still painfully seemed like just yesterday. They had been known no longer as individuals but as “Rachel & Tyge” for 16 months then. Rachel felt a burn in her heart, the hole inside of her grew wider, despite her vain efforts to keep it intact. Back then everything was so blatantly perfect, she never would have anticipated his betrayal. Tyge Riley was a guitarist in their town’s biggest local band.

Though he was four years older than her, they frequently went to the same parties, shared mutual friends and more than often bump into each other in town. It was simple serendipity. It was not love at first sight, but Rachel had never forgotten his friendly face and shaggy mahogany hair that drooped over his eyes and the way he would flick his head to get rid of the golden strands covering his blue eyes.

They started by exchanging smiles, nods and shy glances and ended up exchanging feelings, promises and kisses, one night after a shower of shooting stars. Since then, they were inseparable. She always went to his gigs and he always waited around for her to finish her everyday chores. People around them gawped at their perfection, at their simplicity. Some would say that they completed each other. Where she was shy, he was outgoing. What she knew about academics, he knew about music. She taught him things he didn’t know and he showed her things she’d never done before.

After a few months, small things changed the way they acted around each other, but Rachel was too blinded by the light to notice anything. Tyge’s band had gotten signed, and they started getting more and more gigs outside of the comfort of their hometown.

He had been in Dublin for the past two weeks, and she hardly ever heard from him. She hid her sadness easily, and led on with life as if he were still beside her. And in her mind, he was.

“Hey pretty, I’ve written you a song, it’s called Shooting Star” he had said one day on the phone. “The lads think it’s going to be a hit. I’ve sent the lyrics to your email address and I’ll play it for you when I get back, my muse, my love, my shooting star.” And if she had ever felt any doubt about his love those past few weeks, it all disappeared then. Night after night, she read the song and imagined his voice singing it, just for her. It was her song, only her’s. There was nothing more she wanted now.

More weeks passed until the day of his arrival. Rachel had planned the whole day out. She hopped on the first bus to Heathrow Airport, and waited at the Arrival Terminal for two hours before his plane had even landed. She wore his favourite outfit, wore his favourite smile. One by one, his band mates came out through the revolving doors, suitcases and instruments in hand. She must have missed something, because Tyge wasn’t among them. She told herself he was probably still waiting for his luggage, blocking out the other ideas from her mind. Her everlasting smile died away when David walked towards her, with a look of sorrow on his face. She convinced herself to stay put: it surely wasn’t anything serious.

“Rachel…” hesitated David.

“Hey David! How was your trip?” she forced herself to stay cheerful.

It was great,” he smiled, despite himself, “but listen, I’ve got to tell you something… It’s about Tyge.”

“He’s okay, right? Nothing bad has happened to him, right?” Rachel rushed.

“Well, yeah he is okay… That’s the thing… Rachel, He’s met someone. He stayed behind in Dublin. He left the band behind, left everything. I tried to talk some sense into him… But he… There was no alternative. You know how he can be so stubborn sometimes… He told me to tell you not to call, that he’s sorry. He just can’t deal with this right now… I’m sorry Rach, I didn’t want to do this…” he stumbled on his words, and awkwardly offered her his arms for comfort.

Rachel didn’t move. She didn’t feel. Or rather she simply didn’t dare to. Her life was both emptied of all reason and filled up with a permanent feeling of loneliness and loss.

With a sharp gasp for air, she was pulled back to the present. The song on the radio was her song and that girl had stolen it from her. She didn’t know whether to feel thankful or hateful. The young man next to her offered her his arms; though this time, she gratefully leaned into them. For the first time since Tyge’s betrayal, she felt tears fall down her cheeks. They were tears of sadness. They were tears of self-pity. They were tears of betrayal. But most of all they were tears of understanding, or rather of misunderstanding. She had been his shooting star. But shooting stars are stars that died, that the sky decided to throw away; and just the same, he had thrown her away, and she had fallen. Though she knew that shooting stars never find their way back into the sky, a part of her clung on to the hope that one day she would be able to. That one day the darkness inside of her would disappear and leave place for a new glowing light.

“Don’t you know who you are? You’re my shooting star” she sang along, in a whisper. And the hurt inside her began to manifest itself again… Though it was slightly less painful this time.

Eu me lembro, I remember.

July 2010

I remember reading The Little Prince in three different languages.

Le Petit Prince

O Pequeno Principe

The Little Prince

I remember switching from Portuguese to English and from English to French in order to fill in the missing words and feelings I wanted to describe.

I remember associating my mother’s moods to each language.

Portuguese when she felt passionate.

English when she felt hyper.

French when she had nothing else to turn to.

I remember teaching my father French and correcting his Portuguese.

I remember discovering in Portuguese, teasing in English and loving in French.

I remember that movies dubbed in Portuguese sounded softer than those dubbed in French.

And yet, all the voices were the same.

I remember dreaming about emotions in English.

About worries in French,

About fantastic delusions in Portuguese.

And in times of desperation and loss,

I remember that I have something to feel.

In French. In Portuguese. In English.

Give Me My Sin Again

July 2010

Here you come again

through my window,

and under my canopy bed.

Your eyes make me want to

melt in a daze –

and I’m wishing,

and I’m wanting.

So we run.

run away from time

to fall into the arms

of Eternity.

I think we’re flying

but nothing is an issue anymore

because

we are free.

But time is always an issue,

and clocks are always ticking,

and I fear there is

no more time

for you and I.

From the distance,

I hear:

“I fear

her freedom

might be

her only restraint.”

Do you hear Africa?

Or is it just

The beating of my heart?

My feet dance by their own accord,

and your lips

taste of all things sweet.

But every one of us

are like little bubbles;

beautiful but permanently temporary.

I am gone and so are you.

Our heavy hearts

and burdened souls

chime harmonies seldom heard of.

Here comes the heartbreak

of a thousand souls.

A young lover

Once told me:

“The only thing you have to do in life

is breathe.”

The lump in my throat

slowly chokes me.

I need you like I need air

but air isn’t coming

too easily

right now.

And I’m slipping away into

mad oblivion,

my tears erupt into

fountains of gold.

And as the pressure

of our history

comes tumbling down

on my weakened body,

I remember

You saying:

“I’m tired and all I want to do is leave.”

And you asked me not to follow you, not this time.

Yet you still call my name

wherever I go:

you silence my joy

as you wail in despair.

You haunt me,

but it soothes me as well.

Lost and found,

amidst the cocktails

and ballroom dances

I’m slowly

disappearing

and soon I’ll be gone…

I’m my own hallucination.

A Room Full Of Strangers

Maybe you'll remember
My hands flicking through
A thousand pages of the past;
Reading the paths of
A thousand futures.

Maybe you'll think
About what I last said,
And try to misinterpret it
So that you can understand me better.

Maybe you'll see me,
Just for an instant.
I might remind you of a pressing place,
An urging sensation.

Maybe you'll recognise me,
Drifting among the other strangers.
But I gave up on expectations
Long before we entered this room.

The People in My Heart Are Abstract.

24th March 2011

What is this Love you always write about?
The closest thing
I have only ever known to it is Pain.
I think Love has been far too busy,
perhaps caught up in foreign love affairs,
to pay attention to my awaiting Heart.

But I don't want my Heart to feel left out,
so instead, I fill its rooms up
with different guests.
I try to keep guests like
Melancholy and Nostalgia
for as short as possible,
Their heavy weight makes my
Heart rather unbearable,
and overbearing.

My favorite guest,
Serendipity,
makes her occasional and
unpredictable
visits;
and always brings along
Adventure, Luck
and Surprise.
It's easy to know when
She's here,
Because she leaves
A bright light in
my eyes,
And a broad smile
upon my lips.

I believe that Hope has been staying
in one of my rooms
for quite a long time now,
As has Patience and Dignity,
But they seem eager to leave,
and whenever they attempt to,
I find myself begging them to stay,
Explaining that my Heart needs them,
And reassuring them that,
Upon his arrival,
Love would indeed
be a perfect match for
Each one of them.

I wonder if they know that
I'm tricking them.

Time permits it
sometimes.

Feelings

You have no etiquette
No frown lines
And no tears
Streaming down
Your
Beautiful
Face.

I hear
The inside of
Your lungs
And they're screaming
To be left alone,
To let go,
To escape.

I see
The first
smile line
Being born
On the face
Of a newborn child.

I smell
Unwashed bodies
Crammed into a box
On wheels, turning around
Along infinite roads
Of desire and destination.

I feel
The tips of your
Learned fingertips
Tracing down
And twirling around
The crevasses
Of my empty hands.

I speak,
Or at least I try.
I cannot speak,
All I can do is move
An inch farther away
From familiarity.

Childhood

And your lips whispered "don't move, please..."
Do you have etiquette?
No, I definitely do not.
Knots and ties, and everyone dies.
Someday, someday?
I don't remember, I can't seem to find it.
It's not like we were innocent,
But we were never bad.
Only the best of bad, and we never slowed down.

Flutter down between my lips, rest there a while
And utter what I had meant to said.
I hear him out there,
I hear him crying,
"It wasn't lost, it was always there.
Why couldn't you see it?
Where did you go?"

I still recall the days of our youth:
Two months ago, fresh and anew,
Flickering again, as if it were only yesterday
That our lips first touched,
That our fingertips traced each other's outlines.

You thought that everyone had the ability
to be a superhero.
And I replied that the only superhero I needed
Was right in front of me.

The crazy little children inside of us
Snickered and giggled away
As they toyed with our emotions
And pulled away at our souls.

Nobody ever fully grows up inside,
Something always remains there,
A child version of us,
Doing something stupid
For our very own sake.

So, child, carry me around,
And I promise to never tell anyone
About the feelings
You once made me show.