Dans Paris

Paul: I think we grossly underestimate our sorrows, in general. We always die of sadness, actually. Alice: You mean sadness is put inside us at birth?

Paul: Yes.

Alice: Like eye color?

Paul: Exactly. That’s why it needs our care, but others can do nothing. No one can do anything about eye color. Also, I think it would be fair to let you take care of your sorrow alone.

Paul: I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t trust myself when I’m in love. I get nervous and say the wrong things or I start examining, evaluating, calculating what I say. I say “Think it will rain?” She responds, “I don’t know.” Then I wonder if she’s even interested. It all scares me to death. Yes, scared to death. A friend once told me having a fuck buddy is better than falling in love. I think he’s right. Rain makes flowers grow and snails happy. That’s a fact. But if a girl loves me she starts acting strangely, like asking me funny questions and pouting when I snap at her or saying things like “Think it will rain?” and I say “I have no idea” and she says “Oh” and gets all sad looking up at the California-blue sky. That makes me thank god it’s you, darling. This time it’s your turn.

Anna: I know you love me. That’s the difference between us.

Paul: How can you know I love you? How can you be sure?

Anna: Before I followed you inside this hole, I lulled myself to sleep repeating “Paul loves me.” I said it out loud hundreds of times, like a prayer. Meaningless words. We hardly knew each other. But something came about, something established. I believed you loved me. I had faith in your love. This belief never left me. We can pray to be loved by only one person. It’s not the worst way to save a soul. You never prayed for my love. You never needed my love.

Paul: I think we grossly underestimate our sorrows, in general. We always die of sadness, actually. Alice: You mean sadness is put inside us at birth?

Paul: Yes.

Alice: Like eye color?

Paul: Exactly. That’s why it needs our care, but others can do nothing. No one can do anything about eye color. Also, I think it would be fair to let you take care of your sorrow alone.

___________

Paul: I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t trust myself when I’m in love. I get nervous and say the wrong things or I start examining, evaluating, calculating what I say. I say “Think it will rain?” She responds, “I don’t know.” Then I wonder if she’s even interested. It all scares me to death. Yes, scared to death. A friend once told me having a fuck buddy is better than falling in love. I think he’s right. Rain makes flowers grow and snails happy. That’s a fact. But if a girl loves me she starts acting strangely, like asking me funny questions and pouting when I snap at her or saying things like “Think it will rain?” and I say “I have no idea” and she says “Oh” and gets all sad looking up at the California-blue sky. That makes me thank god it’s you, darling. This time it’s your turn.

____________

Anna: I know you love me. That’s the difference between us.

Paul: How can you know I love you? How can you be sure?

Anna: Before I followed you inside this hole, I lulled myself to sleep repeating “Paul loves me.” I said it out loud hundreds of times, like a prayer. Meaningless words. We hardly knew each other. But something came about, something established. I believed you loved me. I had faith in your love. This belief never left me. We can pray to be loved by only one person. It’s not the worst way to save a soul. You never prayed for my love. You never needed my love.

a sinner or a saint

Routine

She’s out there.

He’s out there.

They sit at restaurants, have lonely meals, read magazines while having a temaki for dinner.
They ask for diet coke with ice, no lime please. They lick the yogurt lid. Sleep with old t-shirts. They hate wearing socks to bed, unless it’s too cold not to wear them.

They like going to the movies by themselves. Hate watching plays. Never care for television. Like going to small gigs and listening to music with their eyes closed.

They love, absolutely love traveling. Despise being tourists – they call themselves “travelers”. They dream of going to Japan, Botswana, Pensacola. Just because they like the name. Pensacola.

They write since they were kids, diaries, stories, poems, lyrics. Never show anyone. But they have blogs and tumblrs and twitters and flickrs and blips and memes. They like to watch videos on vimeo, listen to new bands on myspace and read about technology and education and astrology and random wikipedia stuff. They love their friend’s shared items in google reader.

They both think things used to have a better design in the past and fantasize about being born in Paris in the 19th century or maybe being teenagers in London in the 60s. Or painters from the 15th century.

They both have been in way too many serious relationships and like being sincere about their feelings and calling when they want to call and not calling when they don’t want to. They enjoy witty sms exchange and quotable gtalk chats. Unexpected e-mails are the favourite ones.

Once she was coming back from a party and stopped at MacDonald’s, 4am, to buy some ice-cream.

He was sitting there with some friends, having a Cheddar McMelt.

That was the only opportunity they ever had to meet each other. She even glanced at him, at his cute round glasses and messy hair and thought he was kinda attractive. But then she left. He didn’t even see her. They were never in the same spot again.

Foi apenas um sonho

John Givings: You want to play house you got to have a job. You want to play nice house, very sweet house, you got to have a job you don’t like.
——
John Givings: Hopeless emptiness. Now you’ve said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness.
——
April Wheeler: Tell me the truth, Frank, remember that? We used to live by it. And you know what’s so good about the truth? Everyone knows what it is however long they’ve lived without it. No one forgets the truth, Frank, they just get better at lying.
——
April Wheeler: Look at us. We’re just like everyone else. We’ve bought into the same, ridiculous delusion.
——
Frank Wheeler: I want to feel things. Really feel them.