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How I got here?
I don't remember.
Where should I go?
I don't know.
I know I am here and that's enough.

My world is mine,
Nobody else's.
Only I see what I see,
But I also know
That my view
Is one among many.

I am not less,
I am not more,
I am the exact measure
Of what I should be,
For everyone that,
By my side,
Compose an unique me.
This poem, although only published now, was written in February 23rd during an event with great people to understand the meaning of "presence". It was coincidently the last poem of this project of 365 poems in 365 days. Due to a miscount, it was in fact the 367th poem. Thanks to all my dear friends of Voz 4 that were an important inspiration to write it, which I offered as a gift to them.
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
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,
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.
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,

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.
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