to run

most of times, to run away from what bothers us is the same thing that running away from ourselves - much like trying to look into the mirror without seeying our face reflected on its surface.

hopeless

how can i read your eyes if you have no fucking clue about what's written on them? how can i hear what you say if you can't hear yourself, if you can't understand what you say and if you do nothing to understand you? i could give you my shoulder without asking anything, yeah, but i get the cold shoulder no matter what i do.

exhume

somethings must be left untouched, never to be exhumed from the forsaken ground where we buried them in the past.

living in a lie

don’t give me names,
you’ve got it all, took it all from me.
drove me insane,
who’d come down to earth, releasing me.
healing my wounds...
so why don’t you close the door when you’re leaving me?
now you’ll run,
running all the way back to me again.

i’m not to end in shame
to fight an endless lie.
i’m not to play a game,
i won’t be on your side.

(i) found a way
to reach myself again but all I saw was shame.
drive me away,
there’s something deep in me waiting to escape.
you think you know me,
so why don’t you close the door when you’re here with me?

i’m here to end the game,
i’m living in a lie.
it’s hard to give the same,
i won’t be on your side.

i loved you a lot,
to need you a lot.
i leave you alone...

i’m not to end in shame
to fight an endless lie.
i’m not to play a game,
i won’t be on your side.

i loved you a lot,
to need you a lot.
i leave you alone...

| guano apes, living in a lie |

sarabande

oh, yes, i can hear it. quietly, behind the sound of the raid that has long but fallen upon me. echoing in this maze of debris and twisted metal that is the remains of our blasted world. it used to be warm and comfortable, but no longer. now it is cold, dark, empty. even the rain's gone. only the music remains. that music that announces the death incoming. the only thing left to know is, to whom is the music playing.

on movie and literature critics

you know those people who are paid to write on the newspapers and magazines to write about this book and that movie? (insert name here, my english is failing me) i hate them with a passion. if i could, i'd grab a .12 shotgun and blow their brains up as if i was playing resident evil 3, with jill valentine running through raccoon city with a rifle on her hands headshotting mindless flesh-eating zombies.

by the way, there will be a new resident evil movie - as if the previous two were not enough.

but i digress. i was saying i hate those sons of a bitch. why? because they can't understant literature or movies. and yet they never shut the fuck up. for them, a movie or a book has to have a "message" - some shadowy meaning hiding between the lines or the frames. and if the movie or the book doesn't have any "message", any god damned hidden meaning, it's crap, should never be seen. but what about a book or a movie being nothing else but a story well told? without morals of any kind - only the characters interacting with each other, giving birth to a coherent tale? all right, i could name some movies with a "message" that are, by all means, excellent. but i could also name a couple of movies and books that i really liked to read or watch, even though they had no morals, no "message" - just the pleasure of a story well told.

and it's funny, because the same ones who demand every movie to have a "message" are the ones who couldn't understand matrix: revolutions or that considered crap like farenheit 9/11 or an unconvenient truth documental masterpieces. human beings are indeed weird creatures, aren't they?

philosophy out of a msn messenger's nickname

if you don't know where you're going, any road can take you there.