I sometimes shine
And I don't know
Where that comes from.
It's something from inside,
Something I am still not aware.

Somehow I connect,
Somehow I surprise,
Somehow I am there.

But I often disappear,
And that, too,
I don't know why.
It's just an undescribable need for space.

In loneliness I try to find
This light
But the more I seek,
The further I get.
The more I think of it,
The less I have.

Maybe I should get used to it,
Surf these waves,
Hide from the storm
(Inevitable),
Float during a calm tide.

I know I have it
I don't know how to use it,
But it's ok.

It's only a matter
Of living in ignorance
And embrace happiness.

The precise scale is crooked,
The straight scale is dishonest,
The one that weighs iron
Does not weighs feather,
Or air,
Or fire.

Voices mug
Formless and weightless,
Voices destroy
What hands and songs of many other voices
Have built.

An escaping voice is the choice
Of a tone, a content,
A violence,
A judgement.

To suppress a voice,
On the other hand,
Isn't lightness at all.

We build the world
Surrounding yes' and nos,
Forgetting maybes
And silence.

A shut voice
Bears the same rage
Of a shouting one.

The incompleteness is the reason for life.
To be complete is to be inert,
And to be inert is to not exist.

The need is the origin of every movement,
The dissatisfaction is the hurricane,
Food with no soul
To eat up steadiness.

It is no wonder
That to the condemned
Movements are restricted
In a premature
And with no redemption death

The lamplights
That keep cities safe at night
Are the same
To invert
The skies viewed from above.

Each city a constellation,
A sign,
Seen from afar, inert,
Seen close up, alive,
But there is no gradual transition:
One has to choose how to see it.

When we learned to fly
We saw the world shrink, far away,
Deform,
And these lights,
Small, lost points
Like islands surrounded by darkness
To remind us
We are made of vacuum
More than of matter.

These islands,
Where everything happens
Are our reflex:
Packs on the surface,
We only go deep
Where there is richness,
We shine to those who see us from above
At the same proportion we are invisible.

We are cities,
We are light,
We are vacuum.
A the same time.
Indiscernible,
Inseparable.

In the excess I lose myself
I undress from what moves me
To run in search
Of what makes me run in search
Of what makes me run in search.

Those things I fill
I want to hide,
To put ****** aside,
The shame of not having,
Of not being,
Of not doing,
Making me a slave
Of my desire
To have a desire
To have a desire.

In this plastic sea,
In my plastic look,
In my mold,
In my substance,
Everything deforms
To adapt to novelties
Small as an ant seen from an airplane,
Ephemeral, fugitive,
Undervalued.

To live by news
Is, at the same time,
Deconstruct and complete oneself,
Take off from the body,
Arrive from time,
Float in a jelly
Half present, half future,
To discover
That every history
Is fulfill a time.

To choose the hollows
Is the precise art
Of creating meaning.

What's with my body
It seems to speak thousands of languages
I can't understand.

It would be easier
If every of my systems
Would talk in clear, plain, Portuguese.

Sometimes it's a weird arrangement,
And I think it's all going to be fine,
And I think it's not going to be fine.
But I know it'll be what will be
For we created every chances,
Within every choice.

I know there's a special connection
But what does that stands for
In such different spaces we occupy,
Such different futures ahead,
Such different goals?
We're left with a warmth goodbye
And exhilarating memories.
We have more in our pasts
Than in what's to come.
Probably.
And that's ok.

We'll still have a connection.
We'll still have contact. Probably.
We'll have written part of each other stories
And that's enough.

Our freedoms have outspoken
Plans and flesh and comfort.
But the first aim
Is to seek happiness.
At times, that meant together.
Now it means something else
I'm still trying to figure out.

To be better, always.
That's what I wish for both of us.

If there is a void in me
It's because there is a "me".
It's because there is something being
That once wasn't.
Because every hole
Is just something
Made of something else.

Emptiness is necessary
To be fulfilled,
It's the space of being,
The waiting possibly,
The tiredness that makes us available,
To remove my ego and bring me you,
To approach me to what I see,
For when I see, I'm plain.

The nothingness is the permission,
The origin,
It's too be naked and protected
Of everything that can be "me"
And completeness never allowed.

Five years is my longest season.
I don't know what it is
I keep running from.

Have I hated roots so badly
I can't afford to try it?
Have I been exposed to such opportunities
I prefer to move?
Am I just curious
Or I just get bored?

I do learn a lot
But I only do little with it:
I survive and I delight.
I feel like I drop seeds everywhere
But I fail to nurture them.

What's new for me to try?
An interested phone call,
A Spartan life,
A season as a monk,
A money seeking job
Or a volunteer work?

Every answers lie
On the other side of the fear.

The mind keeps pushing body
Higher, farther, stronger,
Until it is resisted by the impacts
Of a harsh sun,
A draught,
Insensitive words,
That will mold, break and crack.

What's to be done
Is just a choice:
Camouflage the fragile collage
Or to stick it all with a golden glue.

To hide or to expose.
Our selection construct us.