Plane spotting

Will be posting more of these on: http://www.werechasingplanesthistimepeter.wordpress.com
AIRBUS A-320-214 (VUELING) BOEING 737-8ASW (RYANAIR) SPECIAL COLOUR SCHEME (2) AIRBUS A-321-231(LUFTHANSA) CASA C-295M (FAP)

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Lisbon’s riverside through my lens

The Righteous

The righteous

The Road

The Road

Hills

Hills

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Concrete walls

Concrete walls

Fear

Fear

Looking down

Looking down

Compassion

Compassion

Lining up

Lining up

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Picked up my camera again after a long while and this is what came from it.

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The man inside the room

This song and respective video inspired me to write this. I hope you enjoy it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOa–Dhu11M

A man in a grey suit sits quietly on a corner of a dark room. When he looks at the palm of his hands he thinks of butterflies, he sees them dead, falling to the ground in a massive tornado of white noise and confusion. He thinks of pain and of being lost in the woods. He feels the touch of an oar, he senses the river beneath him. The man is a mess, leave him alone.

He’s just a pitiful formless shell of intellectual energy. He is dead. He just lives inside my head. He never got out, he never will. He sees only black and some blurry images of dead things and sad feelings. The man is a bucket filled up with the shit I can’t cope with. The man is me; the man is me trying to run away. I can’t curl into a ball, and sit here in this mad windowless room, I understand.  I need to get out, so I scream and shout. I kick the walls and I flood this page. These words are parts of me. These words smell of me. These words save me from the dark and marshy room that exists inside my head.

I didn’t take this picture

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The torn canvas and its unreachable greatness

My first writing/thinking/babbling piece after a long and involuntary break from writing. I would love to hear your thoughts on it. Here you go, I hope you like it.

A cloud of bugs floated in the air in some kind of trance and the pine trees smiled from above. They were inevitably superior, with those gritty barks, and elegant branches. Then I noticed the roar of the bike beneath me had been silenced by the light melody of a single bird and the road couldn’t in a million years outrun the curvy river. So I left the bike on the side of the road and decided to plunge into the muddy waters. The fresh liquid immediately arose in my head, swelling my brain and clearing my eyes, a tiny fish bit my right toe and something fast crawled up a dying willow grown on the soft sand. The sun rays suddenly broke through the green dome of tangled sweetness and purity above my head. They were like an ancient burst of truth and joy, something so real that made a tear roll down my face of tar and cement.

You human, yes…you! You are nothing but a shitty artist. Nothing you do is original. You create from bits of this natural masterpiece. You tear the canvas, you destroy it… and for what? Are you envious, are you blind or are you just stupid? Can’t you see the perfect concept, the spot on technique, and the marvelous idea behind this earth we live in? You’ll never be able to alter this evolutionary process. Nothing you do will ever say more than even a tiny branch. All your plans will soak in the rushing water of this brilliant river and you’ll eventually smother in the darkness of your own creations.

I didn’t take this picture

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The Fly

I’ve been thinking about something. It’s an ugly, dark and dirty thought that persists and persists. I call it “the fly” and “the asshole” while it flies through my frontal lobe telling me I can’t, pulling  my pen away and ripping the written paper to pieces, however, as write this I suddenly see “the fly” standing inside these words, right where I want it. So, with delicate and agile movements of the pen I cut her left wing with a sharp word and admire it’s pathetic buzzes while she wriggles in pain, waiting for the final blow, but, before I can deliver it I realize there cannot be sharp words if there’s nothing to cut, so I carefully pick her up, put her wing back on with a couple of soft words and let it fly away. Now I’ve got nothing else left but to promise that when she comes back my words will be even sharper.

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this one was also taken by me and it’s called “The Fly”

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Concrete

Since I can remember reality was for me, as an artist, malleable, changeable and soft. Now as I lay here in silence, the walls seem to close on me, with unsustainable strength and consistency. Everything is, for the first time, concrete, so I slide along the walls in despair, as my creativity hardens into a ball of cement. Oh my! Please don’t let me die!

What is this new fixed scheme, drawn with a ruler and predefined measures? Where are those bold lines that lead to nowhere? Where am I?

I stumble through my room like the drunk I’m supposed to be. That’s right, I should stumble trough, no time for reflections that hit the indestructible walls of preconception like soft pillows. I grab a piece of broken glass, and let it fall; I grab a book, I tear it apart; I see the candles but there’s no fire, so I stop, I stop and look around with my now made of stone red heart racing inside my prison of a chest.  There’s something here though, there is something still flowing inside this room of frozen magma. It is like a melodious stream of consciousness that surrounds me like a warm bath. This thing, this mellow thing is coming out of an old CD player, wrapping me in comfort like a warm blanket, melting this ice world we live in, into a huge, overflowing river.

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This one is mine to, and it’s called “Geometric mess”

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