The harshest moment
Was when I found myself alone.
It wasn't scary because of solitude,
Or because I wanted anyone else beside me:
I recognized that feeling latent in every other moment,
With good and bad companies,
In pleasant or sad times.

The only company is loneliness
Which is just another name
For our own name.
Now I am not scared of it anymore:
I only saw the ugliness in its face
Because it is how it was always painted
When, in fact, it was just a mirror.

We were taught
To be afraid of ourselves:
That's the only possible reason
Loneliness is so fearing.

I am sorry to say it
But it is necessary to be honest:
I am sick of my politeness.
I don't mean to offend,
I don't mean to be harsh.
But I'm not sorry for everything.
I can't say no more "I'm fine"
To every "how are you?".
Maybe I'm not fine,
Maybe nobody's fine.

I want to be told
When things are wrong,
I want to be criticized
When I do a ****** writing.
I want to learn how to deal with it.

I don't care if it hurts,
Give me truth,
Give me sincerity,
Give me crude information.

I need no more
Politeness as my own shield.
The world is raw.

To be an artist
Is to drain oneself out,
To overflow life and moments and thoughts
To blow away its content
Like a balloon
Refusing to explode.

I am the hand that writes,
The hand that whips,
I am the commit,
The judge and the executioner.

The hand that chooses
To make or let go,
To punish or to caress,
To wave or to touch.

The hand that farm
That composes,
That plays,
That pray,
That curse.

The primary form of communication
The ultimate form of transforming.

I am the hand
Just that
And I am the whole world.

There is a unique type of love
In these contemporary times
Ambiguously living together
Complex types of rages and hatred.

A selective type of love
Like gravity,
Loses intensity at square of the distance.

A different type of love
That recognizes certain gestures:
Claiming, phone calls, phony calls.
And that, at times, refuses others:
An honest "I couldn't", a constructive argue.

Yet, it only exposes
The complexity of love.
Who's to say
What it is and what it isn't
Without any chance of being wrong?

Maybe it is the particular of the feelings:
It is true in the same measure
I believe it is true.

Love coexist with different types of love,
Different types of joy, arrangements, passions.
Kind of fearing and relieving:
A scaring "what are the limits"?
But also a hopeful "what are the limits"?

We spend our time
Building mirrors
So we can see ourselves
Wherever we are, touch, see.

At times we're lost
For we don't resemble
These mirrors anymore.

The truth is
They weren't mirrors
At any time,
But instant captures,
Limited by space, time and depth.

There is nothing to define,
What's old is old,
It's in the past,
It is no more,
It is a memory,
A phantom,
The mess after a party.

Its beautiful lies
In its absence.

Its character
Is a reflex,
A reflux,
Everything it can no longer
Be.

The new
Is everything
That remains.