One day
We nourish the dream with desire,
One day
Luck slips away at an opportunity.
One day
We believe in destiny as a plan,
One day
Expectations are made a mistake.

Sometimes
We fantasize about the time of one day
In a sequence of years.
Sometimes
We redo in one day
The existence of many years.

The liquid and mutable subconscious
Can always return disclaimed feelings.

We are not many,
Only departures fill the meaning of the stops,
But we occupy enough sits to be a few
And for the distention of a silence of simple sounds.
The dimension of the others
It´s not much more than departures and destinies.

For now, we are only illuminated
By the last orange lights of another village.
All of us abstain from the others,
Not too much,
Not to the point of forgetting from the their presence,
Until the next straight road shrinks us
With one more gush of blackness.

(Warm lights
Emanate a comfort
Shared by all.)

The journey stretches along the premature winter night,
The bus goes embroiled
By the sequence of light and darkness
And we go with it.
Each variation in the spectrum of luminosity forms a layer,
More the layers, more the bus is light and darkness,
Thicker the journey and the denser the enchantment.
The countenances gain new expressions
As they cross the contrasts,
Though the looks never fail to gaze the vast night.
The looks…
The looks on the scattered night,
The night profoundly diluted in the existence of things,
That form the whole.


(Fingers on the glass
Searching for memories
- They only want life.)

One by one, they leave.
The sleeping consciousness wakes up,
From the breaking out of the world,
For the bus stop.
What do they take with them?
Where and for what they go?
Do they really want to go?
They all fade away in the distance.
There will be no one who wishes,
Like me, an endless night
So that the bus can go without destination?
Time does not even have to stop,
Just a single belonging to that bus.

I should not say it,
However i only want the outside life outside of me,
A mutual indifference
Than can fall asleep all the fatigue and exhaustion.
Let me turn into a silent echo to resound indefinitely,
In the vastness of the night.

(Eternal night
Raises chimeras seeing
Some solace.).

The butterfly of fragile wings
Flies between thorns
With such graceful turns,
As when it is caressed
By the sweet aroma
Of a myriad of flowers.

Winter anticipated the night and the stars
And I walk immensely immersed in them.
If warm lighting reminds me that I exist,
The sporadic lights on the cars think I still persist.

After all, only the stars trigger the act of dreaming,
In this journey traversed by nostalgia
Of all the contemplated heavens I've ever dared to wish.
The cold road is the only way.

The life, which I thought I knew, was made in fleeting hours,
Somehow I need to go where I really belong,
That place of latent presences so often felt,
Behind my mind.

Home is not about a place, it is a feeling,
That suppresses the urge to wander indefinitely.
Although knowing that reality it´s falling apart
I'll go home.

i keep my depression locked in a box.
it's not a particularly large one,
or anything ornate
but a box nonetheless.
it's roughly the shade of a rain cloud
about to burst.
it has a vague beauty about it.
this box has the innocence of a small child
the mystery and danger
of Pandora's box.

the more i think about it
it's not just one box.
i have enough boxes,
to build a castle
much like one a toddler would build.
my depression,
my anxiety,
my fears,
my love.
boxes stacked,
neatly, rows.
they fit around eachother,
forming a larger box.

sometimes i wonder
if the state of the boxes
determines how i feel.
if the anxiety box is knocked to the left
am i more anxious?
if it falls off the tower,
am i going to lose it completely?

i keep all of my feelings in perfectly square boxes
each a different shade of rain cloud
all stacked neatly,
in order.