I'll eventually die for it
Whenever life ceases to be interesting,
Or experiences starts to feel dull,
The mysteries of beyond shall drag me into it.

I hope that takes a long time,
I'm happy that now
All it takes away
Are my resting and sleeping hours
In trade of knowledge gluttony.

There is a big "no"
Dividing, mutilating
The feelings of a fatherland,
Turning a home into
A sum of rooms.

There is a "no"
To the fundamentals of civility
Whenever it is said
Criminals must die,
Queers must be content,
Whenever racism is defended,
Although hidden into lamb's costumes,
Of the paladins of Order and Justice.

A country cannot be built
Under so many tearing premises,
We, more than ever,
Need to rescue
What it means
To be Brazilians,
To be Us, again,
Not the imbecile crusaders
Against a self nightmare
Of the enemies dreams.

Underlying all ruins,
All chaos and all lack of trust,
There, untouched,
Stands an indian-african-european child
That, without any comprehensible words,
Will present the chromatic yarns of our fabric
In which any shred
Dissolves everything.

For union, never unity.

Sometimes we have to stand
Upfront the immensity and the abyss of nothing
To realize the only greatness
Lies inside.

I keep moving
Not to understand
Why I'm going.

I keep moving
To be moving
To change landscapes.

To smell is not a choice,
But to select what is good
And what is not:
That is an option!

Whenever I'm remembered
I'm forgotten in fact.
What I am remembered for
Are my outter world,
My shell with its impressions,
I'm remembered for my image,
Nothing more.

All I can be to others
Are visions, icons,
Messages,
All encoded complexly,
A sign not to be understood
For thinking about it
Is to be farther,
To gain distance.

Whenever my name is said
It shuts the voice
Encapsuled by my body,
And whatever I say
It's not me anymore
For my words have not
Ten percent of the real meaning
I intended them to be:
They lack colors,
Texture, roughness, softness:
They are digital and plain.
We're more, multi dimensional.

Whenever I'm recognized
For some work or accomplishment
It's just the manifestation
Of my inability to be authentic.
He who sees himself in anything mine
Steals my bits of identity.

There's no fame
But in anonymity.

The world expands irreversibly
With every new event
Thus, the only way feasible
Is into the unbounded
possibilities of the future.

Between you and me
There's this layer,
This crust that avoids
The real me to fuse with
The real you.

How thick I am?
The exact distance
In foots and thoughts
We're apart.

But there are bits of me
That will never belong to me:
My eyes hold visions
That are no more than borrowed;
My nose grasp the world's souls
In the form of smells -  
A permission of use.

I am just a part of me,
I have my body, with a mind,
A strength and a reach,
But I also have my thickness
And my image captured
Through others' eyes,
My reflex in mirrors,
Shells that represent me,
My very own brand logo,
Glued and stuck
Without any consent.

We grow new layers of skin
Only to realize the more covered we are
Farther we are to those bits of ourselves
That do not belong to us.

To be thick is to mutilate ourselves.

A chromatic beauty
Composed into a complexity
That can only be heard
By simple ears.

The only way to express
The lightness of a tormented soul.

To have a choice
Is to distinguish,
To have appearances revealed,
To create position and assertion,
Is to judge and differentiate.

Choice comes from
Our miserly characters,
The aim for individuality
In a discriminatory way.

Choices are all but rational,
And in all of them lie
A contradiction within,
Born in our own will
To justify, and all fall apart.

In universe and nature
Holds no choice.
It is as human as bombs,
Computers, medicine:
Never good, never bad,
Just things that at a moment
Start to exist.

Even though choices are never material,
They're still real

To live is to be proven
Again and again
About our consistency,
Our mechanisms.
But to be unscathed
Is to remain over time.

Every inch of growth
Comes from millions millimeters of inadequateness
Over parts of our body
Unaware to our nerves.

The same growth and changes
Are dying symptoms
But nevertheless symptoms of life.
Changes are cause and effect of living,.

There is no memory
In being unscathed,
There is no construction
In morosity,
There is no adaptation
In nihilism.

Never be where you are
Is to extrapolate life,
Is to neglect the absurdity of it,
Is to embrace riot to the nonsense,
Is to give meaning and spit it,
Move, ****, move,
And you'll die living too much,
But it's the only thing worth
Dying for.

Beauty lies in things
We cannot comprehend,
In the missing links,
The lack of logic,
Within craziness,
And yet, it's within all of it
Curiosity is awaken,
Like a warning that,
Even though in an obscure language,
Can tell where should we look.

The lines are too straight,
Circles are too round,
But the world is not,
Abstraction is mutilation,
But reality prevails,
And it is crazy, unordered,
Unpredictable.
We either be prepared or we don't.

The same roof keeping me warm and protected
Keeps me from seeing the stars.

To not believe in the current order
Is not the same as to reject all of it.

There is order in going threshed ways,
There is an order in believing blindly,
There is order in flying with parachutes.
Above all, there is ridiculous order in
Being a two paw animal all the time.

To hope for the new is to assume defeat
In whatever is going on now, but surely
It is better to be see clearly the filth
Than to imagine rainbows with eyes closed
Whenever our nose can tell which one is closer.

First there were farms
And we were worried
It would rain too much,
It would not rain at all.

Then came the cities,
Roads, cars, banks,
And we got worried
All life would drain
During a fatal robbery.

Then came the jobs,
And more jobs and
Lack of jobs, and
No matter what,
Money will be short.

And we worry now
Time is precious but
Viscous, uncontainable,
Irreversible, and to
Waste it is to die a little.

If everything is worrying
Why any of it is, actually?
Maybe its not a question
Of what is worrying, but
Of who is worried. Am I?

Every position
Is denying any others.
It is conquered
Through all that is learned,
Through intuition and grit,
And, that, is the only possible position
Oneself can be,
At those circumstances,
At that moment.

The result of billions of billions of billions
Of tiny particle forces,
Together in as much combinations,
To happen into only one solution.

Yet, time and time again
We divert that position,
That self constitution
Relative to the place of values
And beliefs and dreams and wishes,
Where we stand, bravely.
The distance between we and our ghosts,
The self imagined ghost,
Our own view from above
(untrue, but real),
This ambiguous gap
Eventually leads us farther,
Away from our core.
But be not mistaken,
We go. The ghosts stay.

The gap is only imaginary,
A concept, as any concept:
Ceases to exist the moment
It is brought to life.

I feel the Earth pressuring my feet,
Craving prints, marking the land,
Assuring my whole assembly up to that moment,
With that body, those clothes and that walk.

Wandering through different soils,
Gently and inadvertently projecting myself
Upward, resisting the whole planet with my foot sole,
With minimal contact to the ground
As if ballerinas were the natural evolution of mankind.

One can follow my steps
To see what I became,
Can look my footprints
And know if I behave,
Can track my shoe shopping
And know if I've been working.

It's in the way I walk,
Merely standing, barely moving,
Now and then falling, inevitably:
A certain disregard
Keeps me distant, untouchable,
I can never reach my old prints anymore;
The wind has blown them,
Rain has washed them,
But it does not matter...
It's just vanity.

He who sees me walking in circles
Can never know where I came from.

In the future resides the uncertainty of things not happened,
Of nothingness emanating from not coming,
Of factorial and exponential combinations,
Of haltered decisions,
Of the purity of lack of constitution.
Uncertainty is absolute, mother of delimitation,
Only it can, gently, cede into facts.

To be right is to be no thing,
Is to buy food and be given only the smell of it,
Is to deposit yourself over an abyss
Guarding yourself through a thin web
Of a sure death of faith,
Of a short present,
This present that, so certain and possible
That tricks.
That will, eventually, be once again uncertain
Through forgetfulness and intentions,
Fading fading until lost
In the infinitude of odds,
Rebuilding, then, the absolute pureness of hollow doubts.

Present is the time corrupted.

There's nothing more extensive than being.
All sets, chances, creations,
Occupies all possibilities.

Being is not a privilege,
Existence is not unique,
It's just a mere fact
That things came to happen:
Since then, nothing else could be possible.

Hu-ray for existence,
But only through nothingness,
And subsequently denying it
Creation happens.
We owe all to the generosity of no thing.

I can always do better next time.
That's the curse of time:
The end is a never happening event.

There's no such thing
As a perpetual motion.

History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.

Tight clothes for tight time,
Elastic thinking for elastic reality,
And all leftovers are despised:
Food, light, heat, air, time, words;
Nothing can be vainly wasted.

Correct use of words,
Food enough to frighten hunger,
Heat to keep the mood right:
All is precise,
Even our behavior,
Even our calendars,
Even our gluttony,
Even our *******.

In a fluid era,
Precision is our cicuta.
Yet, it is hard to say
Which is medicine, which is poison.
So far, the best we've being doing
Is keep taking both.

Death is certain,
There is no reason for panic.
The hard part, in my opinion,
Is to inhabit the tight coffin.

It was not an option
To be what I became,
It is a matter of time, context,
Life, family, town, skin,
Gender, straightness, history.

To assume I had an option
Is the same as saying
A fish chooses water,
A rock refuses breathing,
A river runs from the mountain.

The laws are there,
The options are vain,
Free will is bought, but never sold.
There is just enough liberty
So we can't effusively discard it.

There is always an upper level of rules,
From society to biology to physics to emptiness.
No system can be self sufficient.

My Portuguese sadness,
My Italian gesticulation,
My German treatment,
My Northern simplicity,
My Brazilian compassion
Can only explain half of me.

I don't know Yoruba
And I don't know Tupi,
I am a Brazilian suspended
In European webs,
But all of it have a bit of me.
I cannot decide between
Abequar and Icarus,
For I am a constant mixture of opposites.

I can only define myself
Within gradients and midterms,
Undefinable, then.
To have an identity
Is to have none.

Into the limits I throw myself
Not to the encounter of softness
Or greener fields, or even fairness.
I seek only to dismantle
The coldness in my fingers,
The numb in my feet,
The grayness in my eyes.

Wherever I fall,
It's a different place from today:
Other landscapes,
Other language,
Other buildings,
Other people.

I cross the world
To unfit the rules I don't fit.
There's a rebellion in my laughs,
And I only sing out of tune.

I go, for coming back
Is always an illusion.

The world had to be strange,
Chaotic, unfair,
So you could be beautiful.
You cause all that's bad
Just by being so good.
Everything has to have an opposite
(Not by ontology, but for our comprehension).
Every sunken ship, every poor town,
Every ****** with power and an empty speech,
Remind me of the details of your face,
The unstable order required
To the exquisite combination to result in you.
For you to be possible,
A whole world of madness was created.

Into the night
There's a different mood,
A different escape,
Something in our eyes
Hold all the magic.

Light blocks,
Keeps us apart
For the world is to big when bright,
And to small, with everything so close
When darkness and cold arrive.
It's in the night
We become interesting,
We let productivity aside
To be more content, authentic.

That's when we no longer
Rely on images
Our imagination
- Ironically -
Is free.

It's the water that bothers me,
Feelings of submersion,
The need of being salty to be ocean,
To overflow slowly drop by drop.

It's the water that keeps me liquid,
Turbulently running from state to state,
Mood to mood,
Tide to tide,
To be wave and current and breeze,
To dislocate within continents,
To somehow be attached to the land,
To avoid the sky to penetrate Earth,
To hold the void beneath.

It's the water, strong and weak,
Carving stone hearts through a strange dance
That make me look to the sky everyday
To expect a new kind of rain
To bring sand
Where only clouds, ice and river are known.

In your eyes I see mine,
I see yours blue and mine brown,
But I know they do the same thing,
I know their composition,
But I'll never know their content.

Whenever difference is imposed
A new border rise,
You and me,
Us and them,
Worthy and disposable.
One's land gets smaller and smaller
With every foot of fence added:
To have a land is be lonely,
To be smaller than everybody else
Despite any comfort.

Our skin that protects us
Is the same keeping us from teaching infiniteness.

I keep myself suspended in thin air
Through my weak arms,
Pulling the rope in a pulley tied to my hips,
Trembling muscles, fearing eyes, missing voice,
I see the ground getting farther
As my hands force me up.
I'll hit the soil, but when?

I suspend myself in a road
Between two cities I recognize,
But stuck in a middle town,
Unknown, bizarre, half dead,
Waiting a never coming repair,
A volatile gasoline to move me,
The guidance to be back on track,
But I get used to the town,
People suddenly are acquainted,
Unstrange, polite, mannerly.
I'm suspended between those cities
By a thin web of limits,
My lack of imagination,
My despise for shortcuts,
My eyes closed to any opportunity
(Received as an horrendous spell).

I'm in betweens,
The half way,
The dissonance of the division of a semitone,
The missing particle of quarks,
The dark half of a lightbeam.
I'm suspended, panoramic.

I'm not myself anymore,
I'm not myself yet.

If "A" equals "B",
"B" equals "C",
And "C" equals "A" again,
Why do we have three names to call them?

What if all my code lines
Those guiding my breakfast and my lust,
Turn out to be just a dumb shot
Of my own arbitrairities?

I would never be able to tell
If I'm right or
If I just think I'm right.

Paradoxically I only know I'm right
Whenever right I am.
It's not about being sure.
It's about the power and ability
To let yourself be sure

If we fear the forest man
For we fear the forest in us
And we give so we can
Take it back,
Why change it?

We might fear for we take it back
And we give for we fear inner forests?

Adaptation is all we need.

I could be afraid
To enter houses of unknown people,
To speak foreign languages within natives,
To sell my own thoughts to insurance
(And live afraid as a consequence),
But I won't, as far as I'm concerned.

I want more than light, I want matter,
I want more than hope, I want happening,
I want more than space, I want hardness,
I want more than voice, I want touch.

Everything requires me, myself, my mind,
To be within, inside, adjacent,
To be where I can be found,
To give the keys to the catacombs
I insistently try to hide.

If you travel to the world of nothing
You will find amazing findings:
The world is flat, but three dimensional;
People are well intended, but petty;
Animals are amoral, but judgmental;
Feelings are just feelings, but also thoughts.

In the world of nothing
Matters don't matter,
Ambiguity is certain, but unsure.
There's a weight in choosing
That cannot be felt in any absence.

But nothing could never happen
Unless everything is imagined.
The world floats in a space
Sustained by anything we can think of.

Nothing can be nothing,
Nevertheless, they are.

There's something when we isolate
That enlarges us, that completes us
Without the need of others.

There's something inside us
Claiming to be left to the moths,
To lose our forms and our substance
Into the nothingness of air, distance and trail.

There's something shouting
"Not me" whenever possible
Just to pass, to live in passenger seat,
To go and to come without bothering.

There's an urge to be just a self,
Nothing more, maybe to untouch
The universe, time and space wisely,
To be a bubble of own rules.

It's all illusions.
There is no world inside.
There's just us. Everything else's outside.

Half ways are not halfs,
They're two thirds or more,
The midpoint does not account
For the prior doubts,
The self empowerment,
The fights against our louder inner judging voices.
They're midpoints,
But most of the world
Is hidden from space,
Things are in all 37 dimensions.

Half ways is just a reminder
That though most of the work is done,
It's the last half that lead to an end.

Procrastination,
Powerless,
Tiredness,
Persistence,
Accomplishmen­t,
Temporary death.

I know us.
I remember us.
There were times when us
Were us.
Other times, only persons,
Happening in between surrounding vacuums.

Now it is a story,
Beautiful and intricate,
It is the entropic causality
Of our common estrangement.

Water and air lightly touch,
But they are immense around themselves,
Just as we are, as our stories,
As our own liberties.

Through the air we say,
But touching can only happen
Within the boundaries
Of how far can we reach.

We reached so far,
But so little we got
That only space could touch.

The magic is to be special
Even when every fortress has fallen.

Futures should be always distant,
Unthinkable, untouchable,
Something to be seen
As a turbid figure,
Refracted, reflected, deflected.

The approaching future
Is always a troubled one,
For excitement is not future,
It happens in the present.

To think of the future
Is always a form of fear,
Is denying the passage of time,
Is the control of uncontrollable.

The only place it could never be
Is in the present.

To say yes is a form of conquer,
Every "yes" is a position in the universe,
A pin on a very complicated map,
A self giving action,
It's establishing yourself in the world.

It maintains the direction,
It leads always forward,
It reinforces itself.
Say yes twice, and you keep going.

No is the choice hidden,
Is a different path,
A nonconstructive but, nevertheless,
Essential and transforming word.
It's just us in ourselves,
Keeping distance,
Depriving the substance,
It is to assume the totality
By rejecting that pin,
That once marked
An intransigent position.

The point is not about "yes" or "no",
But the mere fact
We do not have
An in-between word.

I cannot think
For I have to survive,
My intelligence has been stolen
By a short-term struggle.

My sleep is conscious,
Tirelessly aware,
Tiredness dominates though.

Seize what night can bring
For tomorrow is a matter of moments.

This may be where this story ends.

Everything we see
Is a corruption of the sun.
The inadvertently diffuse trajectories of light
Reflected on a recognizable world.

Standing near the sea
Where horizon is plain and outlying,
Is as distant of a mirror we can be,
Where we can realize the negation of oneself.
That steady line hiding all storms
Is a reference for no reference,
The endless end.

To think occupies the place
Once belonged to sense.
We see, hear, touch,
But whenever thinking takes place,
We become blind, deaf, hypoesthesic.
To understand is to shut and close the world,
But all start with sensing.

Yet, we are so small
That everything we see
Are mere obstacles
To everything behind.

After all, what's the price
Of lefting everyone behind,
Of missing our thoughts the way,
Of leaving pieces through the road
Until every bit is new,
Unrecognizable components of ourselves?

Seeking the ease of easy words,
Meaningless combinations
Just to make a misery of a sense,
Only to legitimate my own power over me.

Leaving this body is a matter of survival,
The road around the sugar cane field
That can lead in only two ways:
Backwards and forwards.
The decision is simple:

Be free in my maze or
Escape to be trapped within binary choices.

Breath,
Pulse,
Think,
Eat,
Drink,
Choice.

Everything else is luxury.

I don't have an address,
I don't live in a street.

I don't live in a city,
I don't live in a country,
I don't live in a neighborhood,
I don't live in a house:
These are all concepts,
We can't live in a concept
(this is schizophrenia).

I live in a piece of land
Above a piece of land
Above a piece of land.
I live above the earth
And beneath the sky,
I live guarded of danger, cold and sunburst,
Also guarded of stars and moonlight.

There's nothing mine here
Except what I see, hear, touch, smell, taste
And what my mind does with it.

When he skipped that bit of time
He saw himself millionths of millionths of seconds
Heading up to the same road,
But he was a bit ahead,
Trapped into two instants,
Conscious and powerless,
Awaiting for a future he could always foresee,
But nevertheless inevitable.

He could not act,
But his feelings could change,
He learned to keep distance from the sights,
That bit did not change the course,
But changed his structure,
His pulse, his synapses, his chemistry,
Until that multidimensional version of himself
Started turning into eternity.
It was the same bit skipped,
But sounded like a lightning waiting for a thunder.

When he saw his own death, it was already too late:
He has always lived life out of his own pace.
He was too early to be present in any moment.

As we live, we reach more and more
Of world's irregular shape,
Maybe it's all clearer with a blurred vision,
Maybe high definition keeps us distracted,
Seeking senses in objects, surfaces,
Where the thin film of thinking
Has not learn how to dive in the contents.

But we have to emerge and immerse,
Lose air in the deepness
And be restrained by atmosphere,
We are taught by diving and by breathing.

Through living, we embrace ambiguity,
We learn to be tough without losing kindness;
To be a fortress and, yet, weak;
To see beauty where we know no reasons to see it;
To know the approach of an ending and feel life grow.

The tragedy of dying young
Is to not have the time to see
Life must be small
In order to be great.

Deepness is more valued than shallowness:
There is glory in death,
Oil costs more than water,
Soul over body,
Roots over branches,
Icebergs are ****,
Gold over green,
Complexity over flatness,
Volumes over areas.

The strange thing is
All our senses and connections
To the outer world
Can only connect to surfaces.
The ninety percent underground
Will always be
The unsolved mysteries.

Incompleteness is our destiny.
We build tools to reach longer,
To carry heavier loads,
To go faster,
But in essence, we are just
Admitting our ineffectiveness.

We cross the streets without fear,
But for how long will it be that way?
We look at love everyday, but we don't see it.
That's a choice, maybe unconscious,
But its ours.

There is love in the humility of a beggar:
The lasting love for his life, despite all the misery witnessed.

There is love in the cursing in traffic:
The remnant of our attachment to steel, iron, rubber and leather.

There is love in looking the other way:
We value our privacy so much, no additional drop of love could fit.

There is love in keeping the garden green and clean:
The greatness of neighbors' compliments could not be more gratifying.

There is love, misguided, but, still, love.
A perverted love for a nation,
For freedom of speech, of choice, of love itself,
Perverted in all aspects, tooling for hatred.
Hate is necessary, but not constructive.
Love is necessary, but not diverging.
Space is necessary, but not kind.
Approach is necessary, but never completing.

There is a missing part everywhere.
We just cannot fill it with the wrong pieces.
It'll be a nuclear plant turned into nuclear bomb.

From difference I learned the normality,
From heterogeneity I discovered space for all,
From diversity I reached farther than I could.

Yet, we continue to seek unity instead of union.