I woke up; the sky was blue and pink. Seriously, the clouds, they were pink. It seemed the end of the day, the perfect cover for a sensitive indie-rock record, full of songs, not music. Two friends of mine once did a double-EP, named Te Voy a Matar / O Verão Nostálgico do Tiago Lacrau. One of the covers was a picture of a white cloud in the sky, a bit yellowish due to some nostalgic effect that was applied. One of them is a designer; he knows these things. This cloud wasn’t pink, but it was cool. Those clouds, this morning, were pink, but I wouldn’t say they were cool, they were just peaceful and serene. Soft pink, light pink. I then closed my eyes and I did ronha. Just ten minutes of it, nothing more. I had a late dinner the night before. Went to a friends’ house, ate a lot of salmon pasta, drank wine, red wine, and talked about law, literature and life. That’s three l’s, in case you’ve missed it. One of my friends showed me his writings; I was touched by this gesture. To write is nothing, but to show what you write, especially if it’s intimate, it takes something. Something crazy. I enjoyed the moment very much, and then I told him I’m always intimate in my writing. It is what it is. I wake up; the sky is blue and pink. But after ronha, when I looked again, the sky was white. Pure white, luminous. Was the last image a dream or a feeling? Is there any difference between them? I could ask that. Define dream, define feeling. How is a dream different from a feeling? I got up and went to work. Classes, two of them: one at the beginning, the other at the end. The beginning and ending of the day. I could have asked: define dream, define feeling. But I was then asked the following question, while sitting at the computer in the living room, lights out, the remains of a farinha de pau dish and a glass of wine next to me, and with the first line about waking up and seeing the sky already being written. “How is? / the feeling”. I replied “the feeling / is love”. I’m in love. It is what it is. Tomorrow is Friday and I will be in love, just like the song. Unlike the song, Thursday started, and I was in love too. As on Wednesday: my friends even asked me: “are you in love?” and I answered “yes, I’m in love”. And we smiled. It is what it is. Like the clouds, the sky. Have any of you (besides from you, of course) noticed the October sky? The amazing mixtures of clouds and orange and red variations of light and colors, smoothly colliding with blues and purples and suns and whites? It is a feeling. Something big, something beyond you. The sky, the river, the praying you make when you go to sleep, your smile, inside-out. And the sun, the moon. The moon was just ten centimeters away from the Castle of S. Jorge on Wednesday night. I swear, I saw it with my eyes (and my IPhone camera) and measured it with my heart, that most of the times works as my head. It is what I see, the golden moon in downtown Lisbon. I also see images in movies and documentaries; I watched this beautifully shot black and white story of a Polish couple in love during the cold war, in Europe. I started watching Ken Burns’ amazing documentary about the Vietnam War. I felt like going to the theater. I haven’t been to the theater lately. While traveling in a Uber, whose driver was a gentle guy that bore a scary resemblance to a close friend of mine, I missed being in one of the front rows and seeing the bodies of actores so close, feeling that tension of the performance, of the line that has to fall exactly like a character, of the movement that has to move exactly like the fiction and dream that it is. It is also, in fact, real. What is real and what is fiction, on stage? And in life? It is a feeling. A certain feeling. A feeling of living, of space, of time, of days. Of, you know. No, you know. I will wake up tomorrow, and I wonder, smiling slightly through the left corner of my mouth: how / will / the feeling / be?