This post is written in English, because it may very well be my last post. Not that I’m that certain about it, but it’s worth the doubt.

Today, on the 20^th august, I have just become 26 years old. If you want to make it a bank holiday, I was born at 10.30 a.m., in a private clinic in the centre of Lisbon. Yeah, rich parents… or maybe I was just lucky enough to be who I am. And unlucky for them for being who they are, miserable and counting the days until they pass away.

Ten years ago, I was absolutely sure I’d never make it this far. This statement will be cliché accompanying me until I have my last birthday, and finally die. Because, for both biological and emotional reasons, I’ve had these suicidal tendencies. Nowadays, it’s just polite to call it a “melancholic” or “depressive” state of mind. Not that I haven’t been bashed on the head before for it: after all, I’ve got most of it all. I’m young, pretty, smart, intelligent, hard working, and in some cases, more of a man than a woman, with all the looks and feminine attitude you’d expect from a woman. Not that I’d walk into a bar and men would start fainting, but I have my charms. I’m not Clarissa, my face is clean. Maybe my legs are scared, because of all those bike rides throughout my childhood, which gave me so much pleasure and dreams. But aren’t those great legs... I’m 1,72 m and 65 kilos, black hair and gapped teeth. I speak at least four languages, and have a bachelor in Journalism. I’m a Leo, with pride, and wait! Did I mention I’m self centered? As any Leo, I’m the center of the world. And, boy, wouldn’t you just love to spend 24 hours in my kingdom… 24 hours in my shoes, and your head would just start spinning off. No really… if I ever write a character in a book, you can bet I’m the best one, speaking in real life terms.

Let’s talk about the best things in my life.

Francisco, also known as Fran, my man, my pride, my anchor. The man of my life, the One I’ve always waited for, and only took 21 years to find. The shocking truth was that I had found him when I was nineteen, but was too oblivious to see it coming. Faces of the same coin, sometimes conflicting, many times in tune. The winds and seas may turn array, but he’s The One. And, wherever he may go, I’m going with him, even if it means suffering and letting go of personal beliefs and feelings. When I needed to be saved, so did he, and we met precisely when those times came for both of us. I just hope I can always have the clairvoydance to sense it, no matter how many years go by.

My four cats, all of them making me as proud as if they were children. Sara, Joana, Arwen and Tommy. And my doggy, Mushi. All of them strays, just like I’ve felt all of my life. Make it also Kedi and Rafa, my babies who live with my estranged parents. And the deceased, whom I’ll never forget: Rudy, Diana, Miguinho, Babucha and Ricky.

And, speaking of the deceased, those for whom I’m always leaving a special cake in a dish on Christmas nights: João Luís, died at 22 of leucemia; Teresa, died at 24 because she was terminally ill, without knowing what the love of man is; my grandfather Waldemar, a sage, and grandmother Lídia, whom I’ve never met.

Friends from far and close, some who remember me, and some who don’t.

Those are the best things about myself.

This is the day I most feel like I have to go back into my life, not only for retrospective’s sake, but also because it means a lot to me. So, people may not remember me, may not even call for a “Happy Birthday” which I’ll sense as being hypocritical, but I do. I’ve got the memory of an elephant. I’ll always remember the guy with whom I’ve had an innocent one night stand, but who made me feel like shit for half a decade, because I was the one after his girlfriend died on a car crash; I’ll always remember the friend I overdosed with my personal issues, when what I should have done was to take the time to listen to, when she was too close to speak; I’ll always remember the boy for whom I started smoking for; and I’ll always remember the eagerness for life experience which flew me into a country where I would have stayed, even if it meant shooting myself in the head because it was not my place to be.

How can I forget the benders with best friends at 15, the poems at 16, the awards for my writing at 18, the feeling that I could take the world just with a couple of sentences at 21, and the uttermost feeling of impotence and unimportance at 24? How can you forget that jump between the time you know you matter till the understanding that your world consists of a couple of people who really know and love you?

Well, last night, I found myself doing something I’ve never thought I could do at this point in my life. As if taken by a mind not my own, I was expressing all my feelings in intelligible ways which I figured I had no power to do.

I’m back to poetry, accompanied by an art form I had left ten years ago. When words lack, I draw. And when drawing isn’t enough, I write.

And I’m turning the memories, the pain, the joy and the love (may it be corresponded or not) into art. I’m scrubbing all those fears and loves into real things. For Fran, for myself, for my children. At 26, I want to be larger than my life and the people who made it worth so far, or damaged it. It is my tribute, and my payback.

It could be cool if 100 years from now, people would start fires on beaches at night in Santa Cruz, and released all their sins and sadness into the ocean in my tribute, but I’m no Jim Morrison or Kerouac. But I will sure as hell will be unleasing this animal, this lion in me, powered by bottles of white wine and Damien Rice of sorts.

Happy Birthday to myself, and may the fires be lit.