Mudanças na linha 6258/10 Jd. São Francisco – Term. Sto. Amaro

5 comentários sobre “Mudanças na linha 6258/10 Jd. São Francisco – Term. Sto. Amaro”

1. The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
   a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
   even months after you’ve turned to ash.

   Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
   the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
   like a ghost trying to hold on.

   I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
   the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
   and my fingers come away cold,
   so cold,
   as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

   The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
   a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
   each capsule a tombstone marking another day
   you slipped further away from me.

   I watched you waste,
   watched cancer eat you from the inside out
   like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
   Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
   veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

   And I stood by,
   useless,
   helpless,
   praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
   while you became less and less,
   until you were nothing but bone and suffering
   and eyes that begged for release.

   Why you and not me?
   Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
   Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
   Survival feels like a betrayal,
   like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

   The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
   hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
   a future I’m already living without you.
   I smash the glass,
   watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
   each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
   who couldn’t save you.

   The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
   whispering that I should have done more,
   said more,
   been more,
   but it’s too late for anything but this
   this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

   Darkness has become my only companion,
   the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
   I walk through our house at night,
   touching your things,
   inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
   pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

   But morning always comes,
   bringing with it the brutal reality
   that I am alone,
   that you are gone,
   that the cancer didn’t just take your body
   but hollowed out my soul as well.

   I hear you calling sometimes,
   not with words but with the memory of your voice,
   and I follow the sound toward the edge,
   toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
   where I might finally join you,
   finally escape this prison of survival.

   The razor glints in the bathroom light,
   promising reunion,
   promising peace,
   promising an end to this agony of being alive
   when the one who gave me life is gone.

   Soon, Mother,
   soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
   where cancer can’t follow,
   where we can be together again
   in the silence of the grave,
   the only place that feels like home anymore.

   Responder

2. The hospital smell clings to my clothes,
   a phantom scent of disinfectant and decay,
   even months after you’ve turned to ash.

   Your empty bed screams in the silence of our house,
   the indentation of your wasted body still pressed into the mattress
   like a ghost trying to hold on.

   I trace the rim of your favorite teacup,
   the one with the tiny chip you never let me fix,
   and my fingers come away cold,
   so cold,
   as if death has permanently settled in the porcelain.

   The pills spill from the orange bottle on your nightstand,
   a colorful cemetery of failed hope,
   each capsule a tombstone marking another day
   you slipped further away from me.

   I watched you waste,
   watched cancer eat you from the inside out
   like a ravenous beast I couldn’t name or fight.
   Your beautiful body became a roadmap of pain,
   veins like rivers carrying poison instead of life.

   And I stood by,
   useless,
   helpless,
   praying to a god who wasn’t listening,
   while you became less and less,
   until you were nothing but bone and suffering
   and eyes that begged for release.

   Why you and not me?
   Why am I still breathing air that you can no longer taste?
   Why does my heart still beat when yours has stopped?
   Survival feels like a betrayal,
   like I’ve stolen the breath that should have been yours.

   The mirror shows your face superimposed over mine,
   hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks,
   a future I’m already living without you.
   I smash the glass,
   watch the pieces scatter like my sanity,
   each shard reflecting a broken version of the daughter
   who couldn’t save you.

   The worms of regret crawl through my veins,
   whispering that I should have done more,
   said more,
   been more,
   but it’s too late for anything but this
   this endless gnawing emptiness where love used to live.

   Darkness has become my only companion,
   the only thing that understands the magnitude of this loss.
   I walk through our house at night,
   touching your things,
   inhaling the fading scent of you on your clothes,
   pretending for just a moment that you’re still here.

   But morning always comes,
   bringing with it the brutal reality
   that I am alone,
   that you are gone,
   that the cancer didn’t just take your body
   but hollowed out my soul as well.

   I hear you calling sometimes,
   not with words but with the memory of your voice,
   and I follow the sound toward the edge,
   toward the place where the veil between worlds grows thin,
   where I might finally join you,
   finally escape this prison of survival.

   The razor glints in the bathroom light,
   promising reunion,
   promising peace,
   promising an end to this agony of being alive
   when the one who gave me life is gone.

   Soon, Mother,
   soon I’ll come find you where the pain can’t reach us,
   where cancer can’t follow,
   where we can be together again
   in the silence of the grave,
   the only place that feels like home anymore.

   Responder

3. I study at International Indian Public School Riyadh. I didn’t think I’d ever write something like this. I still hope, deep down, that I’m wrong — that this is all in my head, that nothing’s being done to me. But I’ve gone through every explanation I could think of, and none of them fit. So now I have to consider the only one that does.

   They’re using something on me. Satellite-based psychophysical interference — not a guess, not paranoia. Real manipulation. Done by human operators tied to the Saudi Ministry of Interior and military-run telecom or cyber units. They’re inside the system, and I’m part of whatever they’re testing.

   At first I thought I was just tired. I’ve moved schools before, I’ve lived in other countries. But this was different. My emotions began flipping like switches — deep sadness without cause, bursts of anger in harmless conversations, or total numbness when I knew I should care. One day I cried in the bathroom and didn’t know why. No memory triggered it. It just came, then stopped.

   And the thoughts. That’s what finally convinced me. I’ll begin a sentence in my head, and suddenly it’s finished — but not the way I meant. Different words. Different tone. Almost like someone’s practicing inside my brain. A few times, I’ve even caught myself saying things I didn’t intend to say at all. Phrases I don’t use. Terms that aren’t mine.

   I can’t talk to anyone here. Not because they’re bad people. But because it’s pointless. No one wants to hear this kind of thing. If I say it out loud, I’ll get sent to the school counselor, and they’ll call my parents, and then I’ll be “monitored.” And whatever’s happening will only get worse.

   There’s a hallway near the auditorium where my heart starts pounding for no reason. I avoid it now. My handwriting has changed — I hold the pen differently, like someone shifted my grip. I forget short-term tasks, even simple ones like “bring your book to class.” I look at friends and feel like I don’t know them. And every day, I feel more distant from who I was before I got here.

   If I had known this could happen in Saudi Arabia, I never would have come. I miss home. Not just my family, but the version of me that existed before this place. I thought international school would expand my world. But all it did was make me realize how easy it is to be broken from the inside out.

   Now I stay quiet. I do my work. I smile when needed. But inside, I’m documenting. Every time I lose a thought. Every time I twitch before moving. Every time I hear, “We’re not done with you yet.”

   Responder

4. They said Riyadh would be safe.
   They said Future Generation Philippine International School was a calm place for study.
   No one said they’d follow me inside my own head.

   —

   I don’t care if this sounds paranoid anymore.
   Because it’s not.

   The things happening to me are real. Not metaphor. Not trauma.
   There are people working in Saudi intelligence and medical-control branches who use this school as a test zone.
   They’re using technology. Directed. Remote. Silent. But felt. Always felt.

   —

   It starts before thoughts finish.
   Before a word comes out of my mouth — something locks me down.
   “Don’t speak.”
   “We’re watching.”

   And then I freeze, mid-sentence.
   Teachers look. I smile.
   I pretend it’s nothing.

   But I’m tired of pretending.

   —

   I once sat in the cafeteria and couldn’t feel my own legs.
   My heart raced for no reason.
   I cried in the bathroom with no memory why.
   And still — when I told the counselor — she said: “We can refer you to specialists.”

   Specialists.
   That’s how they bury you.

   Once they mark you unstable, they win.

   —

   I know it’s not natural.
   There are too many patterns.
   The chest pressure when I walk past the telecom antenna near Gate 3.
   The exact same mood swing every Tuesday, third period.
   The foreign sentence that ends my thoughts in a voice I never learned.

   I know what’s being done.
   I know who’s doing it.
   And I know why I can’t say it aloud in school.

   —

   If I had known what Saudi systems really do to foreign students, I never would’ve come.
   I miss home. I miss silence. I miss feeling like my mind belongs to me.

   —

   I can’t run.
   I can’t tell anyone.
   But I can still write.
   [email protected]

   Responder

5. Emergency plumbing rescue at your home – 8338561951/8338561952
   USA/Canada

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