There is something bittersweet in loneliness.
Something of beauty,
Something of despair.
Something of inner connection
And something of being stuck in the void.

The need to be lonely
Follows the need for freedom:
To be a prisoner of our body only,
To be limited by nature and nothing else.
To be unattached.

But there is always someone else inside:
Someone who is not me,
But can't be anybody else.
Combinations of faces, voices and ideas
Conflicting with the silence
We are behind all disguise.

To be lonely
Is to feel sad and fulfilled,
To find completeness in the missing parts,
But also to feel happy and desolated.

The rain reveals
The sewer lines
Tired of being invisible,
The rats, its undesired inhabitants,
The worms drowning on the soil,
Cockroaches in despair.

The rain reveals
What was hidden
But was there all the time.
What wasn't to be seen,
The undergrounds of a life
Exposed to appearances and nothing more.

The rain reveals
The superficiality
Of empty plastics,
The inherent lightness of lack of content,
The inextinguishability of the bottles,
Trails of the inevitable return to the sea.

The rain reveals
Our blurred vision,
Our need of a shelter,
Our frail grit
That fades with thunders,
Our discomfort aversion,
Our windows to disconnect the world.

The rain reveals
The violence of the beauty,
The victory of the unpredictable,
The animal and amoral cruelty
That lays over the homeless
And the human and immoral cruelty
Of us, who feel only pity.

The rain reveals
And nothing more.
Reveal itself and, thus, exposes,
But it isn't what it's here for.
It comes, simply, and ends.
It is and desires nothing,
Has no purpose nor role.

It happens by getting heavy
And crumbles as it can.
It happens for being unbearable.
It happens for it  was sea once
And sea it urges to be.

It could be anything but water
But chose to be what it could choose
To be solid, gas or liquid.

The rain reveals
That the strength
Is in transformations and movements:
All roots shall succumb.

I sink,
I drawn,
I try to swim
In this vast quicksand,
Swinging arms
To desperately grasp
Any remains of firm soil.

I feel the sand up to my nose
But I fight:
I have this feeling
That somewhere
I'll find a branch to hold on,
An air bubble
To keep me breathing.

I don't care being defeated:
It will eventually happen.
To accept it is my revolt.
I'll stand against the inevitable
For resigning is confirm it.

The revolution
Can only happen
Inside out.

When will I be back?
I've been away for a while,
Further and further
Every time I delay a return.

I'm losing my sense
Of distance,
I start to forget an old accent,
New monuments replace
Those old ones
That once reminded me
About discipline, order, status:
Like modern art replacing baroque.

How much my steps define me?
My twin is only different from me
Because we've been in different places?
My comeback still bring me back
To whom of the many I've been?

History is not only what has been,
It is the shape of today,
The idea of tomorrow,
An undeniable driving force
Pointing at some place ahead
We're often unable to see.

To be back
Is to be closer to the future.

Whenever I look at myself
Through the glass and platinum
I'm looking for answers:
Am I different than yesterday?
Am I older?
Do I look properly to whatever I'll do?

But I am the limit of the mirror.
My skin blocks the inside,
My judgment holds answers underground,
My eyes refuse to see things I don't want.

I am my own limitations,
I, alone, built my limits.
I look into a mirror
But it can only contain
Tiny fragments of past,
Never a glance of what will be.

What I see is not me.
My eyes and my teeth
Can only be seen indirectly.
There is no truth in any emulation:
My own vision is a trick,
My hearing, an apparatus,
My touch, nothing more than
My electrons rejecting your electrons.

The mirror is just a shell.
It will never contain,
Never be fulfilled,
Tells no stories,
Say no things.
The mirror is what you ask it.
An image so distant
Our souls refuse to enter.

Eyes that see no image,
Skin that touches nothing,
A life unable to die.
A concept so absurd we fall in love.

I had this urge
To go on a trip.
I never thought
About it all that much.

I just went
In search of sights,
Landscapes to see,
Bird songs to hear,
But everything else
Was just hidden.

I had a bag
With all my stuff
In case of emergencies,
To control a chaos
I could not handle.

I was stuck
Unable to reach any of these.
Too heavy weight to carry,
Too afraid to be naked.

The whole world was gray,
The sounds, suffocated.
The words, numbed.
The things, useless.

I realized the bag I carried
To be ready for anything
Was, indeed, nothing.
Just a weight.

I could walk,
But it was hard.
I could jump,
But it was hard.
I could sight-see,
But it was hard,
I could do anything,
It would be just a bag.

The prepared I am,
The adventurer I am.
The adventurer I am,
The wilder I am.
The wilder I am,
The more I explore.

The prepared I am,
The heavier I am.
The heavier I am,
The less I roam.

In the end,
I wander less and less,
I am more and more
Attached to stuff
I really seem it hard to figure
Why are they really here.

Our bags are never
Big enough,
Strong enough,
Helpful enough,
But they never meant to be.
They're just bags.

I am the one
Who wished them
To be the solution of everything.
The problem was in me all along
But I never got the chance to see it.

Whatever I carry
Is just my ******* problem.

Words cross me as a knife
In a certain kind of retaliation.
Right or wrong doesn't matter,
It only matters what people say.

I must remember
That words are not sharp
- We hear them sharp.
We let them cut,
We let them in our heads,
We let them overflow in tears,
Sometimes ours, sometimes in others' eyes.

But I carry the weight
Of bleeding someone else's heart,
And agonize myself as a morbid
And undesired consequence.

The dry blood begins the healing at some point,
Or turns to hemorrhage.
We shall take care,
Soften words,
Soften what goes out in the light,
Even though some cuts are inevitable.

The awkwardness of today
Is not how much we value
The ridicule,
But our capacity
To continue valuing it
Despite its growing abundance.

I can't understand jazz
But I keep listening,
Intrigued by it's messy,
Searching inexistent patterns.

I can't reproduce it,
Even if I were to play perfectly.
I feel my molecules swinging
To match the vibrating air,
But the precision of the notes
Is not enough:
The tones in transition
Keep the song going.

My innocence
Keeps me closer
To things I know about.
Jazz is more in me
Than any style.

I feel my head weak,
Trembling thoughts,
An imminent ache,
A taste of alcohol
Extending up to my fingers.

I don't drink for my body,
I drink to say hi,
To sign contracts,
To gain opacity,
To be rewarded.

Whenever I'm alone
Drinking isn't necessary.
There is no one watching,
Nothing to claim,
Just the silent fall off a giant tree.

I drink to be a cell,
A mimetic exercise.
An externalization.
A reduction of a self
For the sake of community.

Expel what's strange,
A self defense action
To purify.

But purity is dangerous as poison,
It lacks adaptability,
Requires precision,
None of which
Can sustain long.

Everything we shoot
Is no longer in control,
No longer ours.
We aim, but reality changes,
Bullets are lost,
Mistargeted.

We shoot to lose responsibility.
We shoot to free ourselves.
Anyway,
Every trigger is just waiting a choice.

To be precise
Is to lack broadness.
The world is limited
For I am limited.
The world extends me
To include myself.

I'm defined by my outside,
The negative position of being,
I am my joy of living,
The decision to remain,
A choice,
A place,
Wordless definition,
A completion of the space.

I am. The sum of all possibilities
Could only lead to this.
I am a result,
A process,
But I am a creature creating.
Because all of this
I can only be insufficient:
Otherwise I would lack existence.

I hear the sounds
Telling me change are coming.
I see a different breeze,
It slowly drifts me
Into an unexplored place,
Calm, fluid, balanced.

I never saw it earlier,
Never been there
Although the coordinates
Were always known:
Any map can lead you there,
Any compass points there,
Every single being can feel it.

Every change is announced,
Even sudden ones.
Our time is sometimes insufficient,
But warnings always exist.

To be present and steady
Is to absorb detours,
To apprehend discontinuities,
To live in ambiguity
Is to live at all.

To every action
There is an equal and opposite reaction.
A price is a reaction,
Value is the action.
There is always a price
Charged in money, credits and debts,
But also in heat,
In relationships,
In exhaustion,
In freedom.

We constantly negotiate
With time:
Our primarily finite asset.
Everything is at a perspective,
Charged in time.

I must learn
To reevaluate all the prices.

The more I do
The more I am afraid of stopping
Even though there is nothing to lose.
It is just a commitment
That no one will charge.
It is my self reference.

But I know my limitations.
I know I can change my mind.
Commitments reflect a time
That will lead to a different time,
Different characters,
Different backgrounds,
Different plots,
A different maestro to a different orchestra.

I fear lacking continuity,
To bend my own rules.
The more I know myself
The more I keep continuing.
I fear the inflection.

I rise into the world of being,
Born, bleeding, crying, seeing.
By any chance
Birth made me happen,
Curiously curious,
Helplessly questioning, wandering,
Somewhat philosopher,
Somewhat physicist,
Somewhat lost trying to create new labels.

I was born
To be in the world,
To deal with questions without answers,
To find my own sense.

I am here for no reason, though.
I am here to be here.
To see it through,
To live it through.

To question is just
A way of being here.

The only thing keeping us together
Is this friction,
That avoids slipping,
Avoids movement,
Despite of all generated heat,
All lost work,
It is, ultimately, micro physics
Of contact, of bonding,
It is a welding necessary for coherence.

Friction allows steadiness and displacement.
The difference is the direction and way of the force.

I once heard a story
That a man, alone,
Built his empire,
Dealt with all his ****,
Fought armies single handed.

He would follow his plans,
Be appreciated for his good work,
Defy all injustices,
Defeat his own corruption.

Of course it is a story,
Not because of all the accomplishments,
Or the act of bravery,
Open chest against the world.

What makes it unbelievable
Is remaining steady throughout it all.
To build oneself
Is to change oneself.

Feel
My
Changes.

I often feel bored,
Companies are not satisfying,
Plans are not fulfilled or fulfilling,
Work is meaningless.

I feel bored
And I don't know why,
Changes seem blasé,
News are outdated.

I feel bored,
Maybe it's just
My optimism that everything will be
What it might be.

Sweating I try to remember
The cold days I used to complain.
Then came heat
And I can no longer feel
The annoyance I once cursed.

I keep hating heat,
Hating cold,
Hating sameness.
Dissatisfaction is my engine.

Sixteen hours,
Three states,
Countless bridges and rivers,
A changing landscape,
Wheels rolling
To leave me
Somewhere,
Where the ticket tells me to,
Where I once were at home,
Where I see familiar faces.

I sometimes need static
To be able to bear dynamics.

In the march
There is always those on the front
The avant-gardé whose faces are seen,
Whose eyes reveal cruelty and tenderness,
Arms in hands,
Rapid thoughts of past and future,
A will to be anywhere else
And nevertheless proud.

To lay down the arms
Is not easy,
It is not only a question of position:
It is a message,
It is a gesture of grandness,
But a difficult one,
An act of love
Beneath all the violence,
Often unnoticed.

Armistice is the ultimate
Brave movement.

Who else has seen this trail,
Stepped in these grains,
Heard the same local noises?

There is no need for checkpoints,
Yet, they are extremely valued.
A possible third of a path,
Or almost entirely the path,
Who's to say?

Here I am today,
And nothing else is sure.
The end of a journey
Is not its destiny.
The end is always unexpected,
By definition,
Different from a destination.

Here I am
And it is the time
To choose where to go
Although where to reach
Is completely beyond my desires.

A silent approach,
Yet painful,
Makes gravity a little stronger,
Acting over thoughts
Draining energy
Through the cracks and pores
Of a body shouting
Untranslatable screams.

The challenge of finding a self center
Lead me into my extremities:
Left to right,
Up to bottom,
All the wingspan of my own being.

As I went left
I eventually caught myself
In the right extreme
With the same perplexity
Of Cook and Magellan.

Whenever an extreme was reached
A gravity, or magnetic force
Would push me
Into a lower place,
Almost indistinguishable,
Somewhat gray,
Somewhat colorful,
But always comfortable.

Every extreme
Are as close to each other
As they are distant to the center.

I am afraid
Of the stones I step,
Of the passing cars,
Of the sounds that fill the calm.

I am afraid
Of things that exist and are,
Of what I can eventually do,
Of the structures that sustain me,
Of the wind that disguises the heat.

This fear I carry
Is the fear of what I am,
Of the real, the idea,
Of what I think
Others think of me,
Of what could never be done
And I could only do.

I have this fear
Of the ridicule in myself,
That amuses me
To say embarrassing truths.

If there is a thing
Such as fear,
It is only a self fear,
The interrupted projection
Of a tenuous success,
Of the polite strength
Of words always half the way,
Seeking an order of a world
That no longer belongs to me.

Everything I am
And I would never allow me to be.
To fear is to be displaced of oneself.

Grasp the air
With long nails,
Beat rhythmically into the woods,
Finger after finger,
To count time.

Crawl or fall the abyss,
Feel the bleeding of exhaustion
But continue, for the alternative
Is to surrender.

Nails makes us stronger,
Frighten others,
Keep us scaling.

Grab all you can
For the uncertain future.
Don't worry about the load,
About the order,
About the destiny.
It's all about
The dirt carried under your nails.

In each of my stories
The world was saved.
Saved by the fiction,
Saved by its magnificent characters,
Unstoppable, heroic, brave.

And all the world's illness
Was reduced to ancient history,
A bad memory floating,
A stain to conflict with a calm future.

But fiction
Is just an impossible reality,
Implausible connections leading
To a deceiving plot.

It is my will
To be the improbable hero
Materialized into words
That shall fail to produce images.

Fiction is an external change
To my internal demands,
Restrained by the boundaries of a page.

I saw him today,
All the way from Korea,
Gray hair, kind aspect,
Whose appearance would miss
The precision in his hands.

Once in a while
His foot would hit the floor
So loud the piano got smaller.
But he could not help it
(It was clear in his movements).

Rhythm took over,
He got possessed:
It was not him anymore.
The space between the keys would bend
So he would reach anywhere he needed.
A precise clock would tick perfectly, inaudible.
Air would cease to resist the speed of his movements.
Notes and tunes would now be an integer part of him,
Physiology would only happen to keep music alive,
He would be able to predict the future
As long as the song goes on.

At the end, tired (the piano),
A gentle gesture towards our culture
To make me feel once again:
Greatness and kindness are much better together.

Suspend this city
Above the earth that contains it,
See beneath,
See the underground,
See what's hidden in its tunnels,
Feel the breeze of a moist air
Trapped withing galleries.

Differ its layers:
Air, asphalt, gravel,
Subway, electric cables,
Piped gas, sewerage, ferrous oxide,
Magma.

Go deep to go properly.
The surface is not the story.
Atmosphere is just a limited point of view.
The movements happen on a tiny shell.
But there is more.
Thousands of kilometers,
Countless weight,
Unimaginable diversity of elements,
Unobserved, untouched, never thought.

Up and the vast infinity of nothing breaks us to dust,
East, west, north, south, and we remain where we were.
Down: what has left to be discovered.
Nautilus and Nemo knew it all along,
Overflowed from an ingenious mind,
So everyone could then be aware of it:
We got nowhere else to go,
And the problem is settled.
To dig is to reach painful grandness;
To stay is to sustain a comfortable sameness.

There are stories
Beyond any physics,
Unreachable by current logic,
And the sustaining intuition
Can no longer make sense
Of a world lacking reality
Or lacking separability.

Lines are only imagined
And imagination is now protagonist.
They now came true.
The ideal turned to reality
At the same time
We lost the capacity
To create the sublime:
Our dreams came true
And now we can't dream no more.

To be or not to be?
Where to be?
Why to be?
All of it matter,
But they are not required
To answer the most important question:
How to be?

We would be so naive
If we are satisfied
With descriptions,
Functions of time and space.
We answer what things are
Or we answer nothing,
And the world is still a huge meaningless mystery.

I am.
That is important,
But what I will be
Needs so much more.

I wish I was different
In a way I can't be sure
If I would still be me.

Then even colors would be different,
The path Earth follows
Would be slightly different,
The moon, either closer or farther,
But altered.

In essence,
Nothing would change:
Another person among billions,
Another ideas within an ocean,
Other undetectable interactions.

Still, incrementally different:
A different gravitational field,
Tenuous distortions in trajectories,
Touched by other winds,
Colliding with new molecules.
In thousands of years
The future would be so recognizable
I would say:
It all could only happen
For I wasn't me in the first place.

I changed so change could happen.

We either live in
A soft, warm, bubble
Or within hard, cold, walls.
The boundaries
Are our choice.

Even when they don't seem to.
It's the intention that changes everything.

Steam it,
Burn it,
Smoke it,
Push it,
Roll it,
Pressure it,
Vapor, vapor, vapor.

Go along the trails
Discover and claim
Hills, lakes, river, falls,
For the sake of movement.
Go, machine, go,
Force yourself through ****** valleys,
Be civil,
Be the pace of progress,
The heartbeat of evolution,
The clock within a factory,
The factory within thoughts,
Push, push,
Burn, burn,
Waste all you got,
Faster you burst, guided,
Guarded, armored, blinded,
Blind, deaf, deafening,
Enraging, plodding, sluggish,
Slip the steal against steel.
Against, again,
And what's to gain?
To go faster,
To be outpaced,
To be left behind,
To remain powerless at the station
Living through a painful goodbye,
To feel the installation of hollow,
To feel only the smell of a perfume now miles away,
To be pinched by steel to steel friction sparkles,
And that be enough to have a sense of self consciousness.

Things are coming, or going.
Any direction you choose:
Either closer or farther - that's what's happening.

Round, around, surround,
Rounded, surroundings,
Tangent, tangled, tango,
Dance, dense, tense,
Intense, interior, international,
Nation, notation, notion,
Purpose, purple rose,
Thyme, lime, time,
Evolve, involve, revolve,
Round, around, surround.

Again, gain, grain.
Rain.
Revolve.
Start. Smart.

Pointless, less.
Point.

Make.
Your.
Point.
Revolve, recycle.
To the origin.
Begin.
Up.
To.
The.
End.
And.
Over.

There is a certain kind
Of laziness, of apathy,
Which contaminates
Bones, muscles, tissues,
Rendering physics useless,
Psychology whines,
Neurology cries,
A vacuum installs
And curiosity fades,
Our countenance betrays
The deadly inertia carried
For reasons yet to be understand,
Held against what we are unaware,
And the very passage of time,
Countless seconds stinging
Where we sense the passing hours.

Maybe it's the death of a supermassive star,
Maybe just a lost bug carried by the wind,
Maybe there is no reasonable cause.
It all depends on what answer
You are trying to observe.

For any practical purposes
My body contains everything I own.
I do not own my food
Or my oxygen:
I steal them
From the land and the air,
For everything to be transformed
Into waste.

Nevertheless
There is an outer part,
Unreasonable,
Waiting for inconsistencies
To install itself
In the cracks of personality,
In the voids of indecision,
This part, insubmissive,
Remains unattached,
A slave of the lack of rules,
Traveling faster than light,
Unseen until a careful watch
Freezes its amorphous form.

There are complements of ourselves
On every surface touched,
Outer parts of who we are,
Of electrons shared,
Of not imagined interactions,
Rendering responsibility obsolete
Due to our limited capacity
To be affected
By the smallness
We are all made of.

I see perfection
In every bit of creation
In the mess I leave behind
After cooking a meal,
After planning a trip.

I demand perfection.
I see it, but I can't touch it:
It is an idea
Never to be complete.
To see is to rage,
To touch is to choose reality.

Mediocrity is necessary:
It is all that there is.
It takes eternal time
To reach any kind of completeness.
To exist is to be missing
Sense, parts, matter,
Soul, feelings, rhythm,
Nutrients, flavor, smell,
Roughness, silkiness, deepness.

Ten out of ten
Is a ridiculous possibility.
Six out of ten
Is a step into,
A plausible, reachable,
Achievable
Perfection.

Positively I crave a flag
Into where I want to be.
There is an itchy feeling
Urging from my gut
Saying in a strange language:
Claim this space,
Earn it, possess it,
Be it, live it, know it.

As I stand
I see the river flowing
Dividing territories,
Undecided, freely riding
Down the valley,
Carrying those
(often myself)
Rootless and unintended
To wherever gravity demands.

To stay is to be positive,
To be positioned,
It is to give name,
To draw a map
To be available
When anyone
Get trapped into
The vortex of wandering.

Over time, distances increase in matter.
As we start to perceive the world
Every other discovery is farther apart.
We learn only to left out of real knowledge.

As we grow older
We learn to put apart
Moments of joy
In between vast moments of production.

We slowly put distance
To subtle kindness
To others we know not how to call.

We get used to
Leave home less and less
- A different type of distance -
Until outside
Is a bleeding discomfort.

We talk slowly
In search of meaning
To fill filling silences.

We resign to see our brothers
Few times a year
Only to be thankful
To be able to see them
Only before their deaths.

We attach to ideas so much
Each time takes longer
For we to change.

Until, inevitably,
We are as distant as possible
To the present
And our lives.

What remains is only two options:
Death and schizophrenia.

The deepness
Avoids the surface to break up,
Just as time helps deepness
To keep existing.

For matter to be
It must be supported
By all that cannot be.

It is not important
How big a thing is:
its surroundings will always
be bigger.

To exist is small,
An irrelevant exception
To the greatness of
The infinite of openness.
But exceptions matter:
Bubbles are an insignificant,
Magically beautiful,
Exception of the vast air.
Ephemeral due to its
Lack of deepness,
Amazing for its frailty:
A perfect metaphor to life itself.

Down the road,
In between leafy trees,
There is a lone lamplight:
Sometimes steady, reliable,
Sometimes flickering randomly,
A mist of lighthouse
And faery fire.

Through its clearance extent,
The unseen horizon of its light,
Passes a man
After a woman.
Dark, light, dark.
Dark, light, dark.
And the sounds,
Untouched by the photons,
With accelerating rhythm,
Gives a sober dreary tone
To the undisclosed scene.

Not even the privileged highness
Of the witnessing lamplight
Could reach the sight of what happened.
Part of every eye
Are just not capable of see it;
Another part
Simply refuses
For the freeze of action
Would render all conscience useless.

The hidden darkness
Within every clarity
Contains more danger
Than all of them shades.

I will once again
Be deprived of rest
For the sake of movement,
For the economy,
For the reason,
For the fire in engines,
For pulps,
Bulbs,
Bulls, dulls and dolls.

Half words corrupted
For the increasing lack of control,
A time within my time
To mark hours within my hours,
Corroding my moments
Into a drifting yaw.

Ungoverned in direction
Of a natural collision
Against shields left behind,
Forgotten, but solid,
Shields against will,
Shields against pleasure,
Shields against animals inside,
Shields against killing time.

I anguish for the incompleteness
In everything I produce,
In the words I pronounce,
In the interruptions of flows,
I anguish for the circle has no end,
I anguish for the ideas that left untouched,
For the inspiration underutilized,
For the balance never to be found.

I anguish for I anguish.
There is no end
To what has no start.

Does it matter more
How intense I give myself
Into creating quality,
Content or just a process?

There is a fragment of unpredictable behavior
Where all of this components
Feed themselves
And we don't know
Where it begins,
Where it stops.

The only thing to do
Is trust whatever process
To evolve into a result.

Quality follows production.

I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.

There are hidden prices
To go through the highways.
The destinations are always known,
The landscape is known,
And there is only repetition.
Nothing is created, and
Movement becomes ephemeral,
Incapable of producing anything
That will outlive the own highway.

There are hidden rewards in clearing territories:
Everything is new,
Opportunities lie anywhere,
Everything will make you stronger.
But harshness comes alongside,
Callused feet, cracked hands to open ways,
Sleepless nights in a mixture
Of cold, fear and anxiety with the things to come.

There is no authenticity in routes already traveled.
In somewhere, still unaccessed,
Lies what composes us,
Our unique voice tone,
Our journey that might lead
To our potential super-humans
If we learn to use discomfort as a weapon
And comfort as a momentary prize.

I often misplace myself,
The wrong place and the wrong time,
The repeated search of a lightning
That, in an effort to not strike
The same spot twice,
Hits the exact same coordinates.

To place yourself is to create a label.
It is written in my packing:
Person, curious, kind, perfectionist, independent.
But the course of happenings is organic.
Rules are only a posteriori things.
I can't be a person because
There is no such thing as a person.
Curiosity is a movement,
Kindness, liquid.
Perfectionism, illusion.
Independence, a vague concept,
Lacking definition and sense,
Useless to be argued.

To be correctly placed
Is to be sole,
A desirable, painful choice.

Sometimes
We just need
To hack our own rules
Whenever we feel
They do not fit
Us, the moment,
The vibrations,
The intention
And the breeze.

Today I disobey myself:
To write
When all my cells tell me
To surrender to the deepness of a sleep.

There is a detachment I seek,
I can sense its lightness
To lead me to new routes,
Wander town to town,
But it is unreachable.

It is there in idea,
Form, smell, colors and shadows,
But never in walls, floors,
Treads, acting and feeling.

There is this impression
That I know what I want,
But that I don't know how to be it.
That I can't find the place to unearth it.
That I can't find the compass to point it.
And, drifting in the sea of everything inside me,
I lose myself in fake storms
Created to sustain my farce failures.

There is this light impression of control,
Of a premeditated operation, reasonable,
Which I carry at all times
Like coins in my pockets:
Don't know what they're there for,
And I'm always willing to give some to whoever asks.

But it is a light impression.
It is a fact, although questionable.
It is the principle of a doubt fed day by day
By vague thoughts,
As if they're thought by others through my mind.

It is the impression of a renunciation,
But I want it real.
As I want my breakfast
And healthy legs to move.

I want the softest of breezes
To carry me even to places
I don't want to be.