The more silent we are
The farther we can hear the wind.
I'm not really sure
What is the use of it,
But, in its own tongue,
It has much to be said,
Many places visited,
Many plagues delivered,
Many flowers pollinated.

Our absence of understanding
Does not mean absence of meaning.
It's just the language.

Diminish the extensions
By being just you,
Your dreams,
Your reality,
Your musics,
Eventually, you'll cease.

Forget about yourself,
Lose the extensions of you,
Forget your endings,
Your arms,
Your fingers,
Your feet,
Your toes,
Your hair.

Then, all you'll be left
Is everything.

All of nothing,
Nothing of all,
The result is the same.

Round and round we go,
Afraid to have our time stolen,
Looking back,
Watching our backs,
Even though there's nothing left to lose.

We got used to the crust,
Living on the surface,
Immersion is hard, but there's nothing without it.
We dig oceans and oceans for some sort of glory
And left aside all deepness in speeches,
All humanity neglected, at a cost of our own.

I have not met true faith
Rather than a future always to happen.
I was not prepared to believe
Better times should escape in-between my fingers.

But the result is the same:
We fight for nothing about everything
Or we fight for everything about nothing.
We only get to choose the way.

Yesterday I was a worker,
Waiting relentlessly a month to end
For another month to end.

Yesterday I was strong,
Pushing tomorrows farther and farther,
Holding ideas as hard as I could.

Yesterday I was calm
As the sleep au Clair de Lune,
Unaware of its ill.

Yesterday my stomach did not hurt
Every time I heard non-sense stories
About who should control my body.

Yesterday I felt powerless, too.
I could not seek me for I was
Hid under the ground, neglected.

Yesterday I was trapped
To believe in freedom and love,
But they all revealed incompatible.

Yesterday I was dead,
Today I live, and tomorrow,
What's the point of it?
It'll eventually
Be another yesterday,
a day for mistakes and childish foolishness.

Reality is an echo, a reflection
Of what can be sensed;
Eyes and ears hammering waves
Into transitory states of comprehension.

It is only possible to sleep
After something is learned,
After changed a guard shift,
After dreaming awake the next dream.

Existence without sensing
Is just a storm, a hurricane,
Incapable of stopping,
An event only noticed from the inside.

It appears to me
Not in its real form,
Although not in an unusual shape:
It appears to me
In a convenient way
So I don't fall in contradictions
Of reality rules
I created myself.

Every letter that drops
Must have a purpose,
Quarks of ideas,
Matter of all immateriality,
Sparks of virtual revolutions.

Eventually, we run out of it;
The train of thought slows down,
Out of coal, out of diesel,
Little by little synapses fail,
That black image is not just a tunnel;
It's the deep ends of the ocean,
It's the cold of a winter cloudy night,
It's just a pool of ideas,
Empty even on its color.

The more energy we put,
The more tangled the knot remains.
Useless to seek nozzles or drains;
All vanishes through the cracks of breathing.

We know from the world
Only what is interceded by our senses.
We are transparent to a whole metaphysics,
Collecting fragments of a reality
Extrapolating missing links.

It is terrible to know so little about the world,
But, thinking of it, it is much worse
To know that much of what we know
Actually isn't;
They're just loose, untied nodes.

Life is the construction of a railroad,
avoiding past mistakes,
betting on a wonderful destination,
On a train, constantly accelerating,
Inevitably colliding at the end
Of what is left of a ****** landscape
With no rails to build on.

There is this only way
I know to keep me off track.
To imbalance processes and structures,
To make tremble foundations,
To fly wingless even if heavier than air.

Often I seek other tracks
In the same grid,
In the same territory,
Same landmarks to guide me by.
But it's not as disturbing,
Different questions arise,
And, although it is an entangled web,
Every string pulls oddly.

It's the path, this only path
I can ride on it in the dark,
      [I've been hit sometimes, but it's OK]
I even forget it's sinuosity,
New buildings often change its face,
And the only way to recognize it
Is my weakened knees,
My shivering skin,
For I can feel the world falling apart.

This only way, only road, only path:
words, words, words.

Everything is a lesson
That I am sure of.

I find it hard to understand
What is the course we're taking.

Life, love, friendship, work,
It's all a whole lot of baggage
To carry on from class to class
Only to find out
The only thing that matter
Can only be discovered
After the end of the course.

We'll learn what to do here
When we'll long pass being here.
The joke, my friend, is in all of us.

Difference can only be observed
With a deep and close look,
But connections can only be seen
Far above the clouds.

We are singular, we are plural;
Heisenberg could not be less certain.

I am the matter and the indivisible substance
Of exactly everything I am not:
A antithesis, a negative, a mold.
I am my exact surroundings
That did not fit in itself.

I am the being I did not chose,
And I chose to be everything that can not constitute in me.
I am all that I see,
And the only thing I cannot see is me.
Even my image in the mirror
Is my inverse, maybe even in the colors,
Who knows...

I am a history course
Incapable to drain in others.
The realization of the impossible
Within the boundaries of logic and entropy.

I am, and I am everything reflected in me,
Inside a non-existent world
That starts to exist in reaction to me:
Forces, gravity, gestures, breathing.

I am the cause of things
As much as I am an undesirable effect.

Compose my reality,
Warn me of last year fashion,
Or a poisonous frog in the jungle,
Be my guide, at least when there is light.

Be my virtuosity inside what's real,
The three dimensional message
To make sense at the failure of words.

If all fade, let the lack of colors
Inform the dawn of my days,
Or of my senses,
Or of hope.

Through greyness I'll distinguish
Light from dark,
But I'll miss all tones
To tell me the sphericity of the world.

All that's left, substantially.
The structure kept in the three-dimensional world,
Backbones and spines and ribs,
Cranes, femur and phalanxes.
But they're no more than memories,
A touchpoint of the past.

Everything else flows like the wind,
Present, but invisible.
Important, but immaterial.
Immortal, but perishable.

Bones are frozen clocks,
Remnants of stories and events.
In the end, they're more important as records
Than as personal memories.

Hungry, but too tired to cook.
Sleepy, but too early to sleep.
Tired, but too anxious to relax.
Dreamy, but too awake to fly.
Desperate, but too incapable to act.
Conformed, but too eager to leave.

That is the only gate
To the way out.

Silence, for we sleep
The grave rest of the almost dead,
The silence coming from acute hearing,
And the freezing of acting,
The silence encouraging
the redemption of the guilty of doing nothing.

The silence required
To maintain trains on rails,
Strings *******,
Rollers rolling.

This silence of a profound trance
In a quiet city,
Revealing in its sobriety,
Repealing in its exclusivity.
The silence of the order,
The silence of the steadiness.

Silence, for we continue the journey
With different names and disguises.
Productivity has other names,
Other faces, other friends,
But, nevertheless, quiet.
All of them.

Silence is our synopsis.
Yet, every word shut
Shouts greater within
The walls of our skin.

Everything in reverse,
Everything that's not me,
The source of frightening,
The place absorbing my daily death
Until death is my only existence.

Today I'm not outside,
I'm just things within a skin,
A placeholder of DNA,
In the limits of logic, knowledge and
Some sort of physics.

The medium of all encounters,
The existence of existences,
Producer of consequences,
Determiner of behaviors,
Limiter of freewill,
A cat over my belly.

A former of images for my eyes,
Flavoring for my tongue,
Stimuli for the whole me:
That's the outside inside.

The hardness to make me hard;
The world so I could not be alone;
The time whenever I have a choice to make.
The decisions not taken,
The spaces not invaded.

Outside is the living place of reality,
We're just so inside it
Our greatness get lost
That certainty that all is just the same,
Different proportions, different orientations.
Different recipes for the same ingredients.

The outside
Is nothing but another point of view
From the inside.

Red blood, gray mass,
White cells, blue veins.
That's what we can see,
That's what's exposed.
That's the inside outside,
The wound after the accident,
The proof we're alive,
The probe of our species.

We're made mostly of things
We cannot see we cannot see,
So distant that galaxies seem nearby,
So inconceivable that reason triumphs,
So invisible that they govern our lives.
Fabrics within fabrics within fabrics,
Up to a point description fades meaning.

The inside is definition,
Is the medium of existence,
Light and lightness,
Thought and thoughtfulness,
The hardness required to be soft,
The content of a punch,
The reverse filter
(laisse passer le poison).

What's inside is our income and savings
From the world.

It's in everyone's faces
Where they're going.

The guy on the right
Eager to get home
Having watched television all night
Waiting someone to come.

The lady in front of me
All dressed for (I suppose) a new job,
That smile of excitement,
Getting used to the daily path.

The fresh eyes, certainly a tourist,
All is perceived by him,
Little things that are missed
By millions of people passing
Thousands of times through them.

The old lady, slow in her walk,
For sure fast in her mind,
Respected by most,
Invisible to some,
Carry few expressions above her wrinkles.
But her determination suggests
A recounter, a strong need
To put order to something
Long neglected:
A supermarket, helping a son,
Working extra time, a visit.

There's a guy reading
Any important book,
Hoping to come to be
An important person
(Isn't he?)

I might be wrong in all of it,
But for sure I receive those exact signals
I believe I'm receiving.

It hasn't anything to consistency,
Neither with rigidness.
It isn't a state of hardness,
Nor a form of perennial existence.

The ground is solid, but not rigid;
A carpet is solid, despite of softness.
There's solidness in the harsh feelings of parenthood.
Solidness means being contained
Within a specific space.
Solidness means being able to,
Whenever reached critical moments,
Acquiring liquid form.
Solidness means being elastic,
But only up to a point.

Weakness is not not being solid.
Weakness is just pretend
That being solid
Is the only state possible.

Any state can happen,
As long as conditions
Allow them to be.

"Us and them
And after all we're only ordinary men".
That said, what's left?
The two worlds, that one living in me,
And that other one, living in you,
How different could they be?

Everything to us, nothing to them,
I cannot be hurt, except
My skin are theirs,
And my pain as well.
I earn their money,
I wear their clothes.
I am a different person,
And, yet, depending on the distance,
Exactly the same.

Between us and them
There can be no we.
But we can be heroes,
Any day we want
(Maybe, for unknown reasons,
We just don't want to).
We fight for our rights
Whenever I can't.
We change by voting
Whenever I can't.
We are a country
Anywhere I'm not.
We are the world
Where I, alone, can never conceive it.

The world, by itself,
Is just a floating rock
Tempered with moving molecules
Unable to see farther than the eyes.

Love is hard, ungrateful.
Give love when given hate is a gift.
Love puts us down
Whenever we see things differently.
Hate is also hard, but coldness ain't.

School teaches us to methods and discipline,
Jobs expect nothing less than full resilience
(In a deprived robotic meaning),
And we grow and grow
Closer to anything but sensing humans.

Love is weak, fool,
Specially that kind of love
Flowing between cars in traffic,
Houses in neighborhoods,
News on the TV.
That stupid love
When you say sorry after being attacked,
When you return angry with a smile.

Love is painful, today.
Tomorrow, might just be
A light mode of living.

Make it quick,
Make it fast,
Your rules, your fault.

Do what you intended for yourself
Or nothing's left but self pity.

Today, and all other days,
Nothing stops,
Only you.

Do it fast,
But do it.
WRITE!

Take it, last or not,
feel the hot air inside,
Satiate.

Few times per minute,
All minutes in the interval
Between birth and death.

Breathe to words,
Breathe to colors,
Breathe to songs,
Breathe to forms.

We make art
Out of air.

Words fly high,
Trespass walls,
Penetrate, extirpate,
Build and implode,
Code and decode,
They're just words
But much more than
Physics behind them.
Words are phenomena,
Pure causality,
Pure order spiced by disorder.
Beauty and pragmatism.
Words fly high
And fall heavily.
Anchor and wings,
Ship and harbor,
Grenades and first-aid kit,
Surgery room and coffins.

No more than words.

Orders are paths already crossed.
Chaos is lack of understanding.
What we sense is the ultimate reality.
What we know is our deceiving mind
Cheating ourselves into presumption.

It takes courage
To leave home,
To return and see nothing's changed,
To realize things go on,
To see smiles where tears were expected.

It takes courage, and only courage,
To fly.
It's our fears, doubts and regrets
That anchor us to the ground,
Not the absence of wings.

It takes courage
To abolish mind constructions,
To listen to different musics,
To bring love after treated with hate.

It takes courage
To stand up against time,
Against things that went the wrong way,
To see that there was not a wrong way.

It still takes courage
Just to see the courage
In knowing our very own likes and dislikes,
Our whys, our whens and our whats.

Every time my city comes to me
I find it hard to seek my buried treasures.
They still exist, but layers and layers
Of novelties, of sediments, of landscaping
Make them miss my eyes.

Every time my city comes to me
I am in a different shape, but recognizable,
Old stories cross by, new futures become possible,
Life goes on, but never again in the same way.

Whenever my city arrives with its lights on,
Inviting eyesight and welcoming reflections,
I know I am grateful for every footprint
carved on some fresh cement on the sidewalks,
For every friend met in the way,
For the bonding loneliness,
For the distracting crowd,
For the provincial beliefs (to be conflicted).

Every time my city comes to me
I know and I don't know
The good things and the bad things,
That happened here, all at once.

I've seen the sunset today
So I could say:
Set myself into complete ignorance,
Into the grandness of irrelevance,
Of an irreverent existence,
Just to be, once again,
A shadow, never contained by light,
Diminished by sunbeams,
Uncontained within my own forms,
Informed by anything surrounding,
Nonconformist by the rule,
A follower by design,
Bounded by a thin membrane
Half permissive to toxicity and medicine,
Filtering dreams and passions and connections
And that same red light of the sunset,
That one profusely shining million color tones in the sky,
That one that reminds me every day I forgot to seek it,
That one majestically telling me the distant limits of the world,
Pushing night no matter what.

Set me up, for night is a friend.
Set me down, make me sleep while you're awake,
Set me into a wheelchair, down a ladder,
Uncontrolled, but just for fun,
Set me with a straitjacket,
Set me with anger, **** my innocence,
Set the controls at the highest volume,
Explode my eardrums and whisper spells of happiness,
Let darkness prevail
For the most beautiful feelings
Require fertile soil to flourish.

I have brought disaffection to the world,
I loved, I suffered, I brought suffering,
I'm human, nothing more, nothing less.

I forgive everyone who have hurt me,
For the price I pay for not doing so is too high:
I do it for myself, for my lightness, for my peace.

I forgive but not without saying
(It is my very right to say it!)
I've hurt. Often, badly, and it's OK.
It's just life. But, please, consider that.

I forgive myself as well,
But not as a free absolution:
The price is payed through suffering and pain.
I absolve myself for I know that every suffering,
In order to not being in vain, must end.

I'll try, hardly, to turn every single ounce of pain
Into a ton of love. That will be
My
Superpower.

The only judgment ever to be made
Should be that our own lives
Matter most
Than anybody else's.

Your ruler cannot measure me.

My words are my language,
My only, my own, mine and nobody else's.
We happen to have things in common,
Same name for colors, for beds and rooms,
I have my own past, present, future,
Perfect or not, continuous or not,
My time contains all verbal tenses.

We touch each others' lives,
We are nothing but leaks,
We need tons of ourselves
To give just grams to others,
But, again, small leaks,
And it's OK.

Uniqueness does not make me
One of a kind,
It just makes me
An other.

Hail to being one, being all,
and being none.

The real difference between
Failure and accomplishment
Is none.

Therefore, I wonder sometimes,
Why do I still bother,
Keep moving challenges and adulthood
Forward?

Time to time
I want nothing
But to watch a loud clock
Go by a whole round.

Just
Fall
Asleep.

I am seasick,
And I am homesick.

I feel at home cooking,
Using my own restroom,
When I know streets, paths, regions, even trees.
I rarely feel it, but I sometimes do.

And it's good.

Feel at home is ambiguous,
Comfortable and redundant,
Brightless and efficient,
Lazy and unstoppable.
Feel at home is time and space independent,
Can be and not be, at the same moment,
Quantically.
It's, in all forms,
The wish to be somewhere
Never to be found,
And, yet, always revealed.

Impossible.

Heights and short trees,
Hot winter, red stones,
Cold water, abundant falls,
The pale green leaves
And unforgiving blue sky.

These words,
Although accurate,
Could not be more wrong.
Guimarães is your name,
Only freezing bones
In freezing was can tell
The truth about you:
Nothing human is found in you,
Not even the humanity of people
Imprinting landscapes through our half known truths,
Touching the imagination of our history
Hoping our shouts to be heard
For these same people, in the future.

Nothing human:
All is magic.

Through fissures of the world
We build our knowledge,
Through fissures between us and others
We construct relationships.

Through fissures in time
We try (effortless) to predict future,
Understand past,
Control present,
But it's all fissures.

All but little cracks,
Percentages of reality,
Small parts of the world
That we are able to capture.

We cannot live life in completeness.
We are built through our fissures.

The longer the roads
The more we have of ourselves.
Landscapes pass through
Without alarm,
Until we're awake.

Mountainside are a sculpted beauty,
The solid of geography,
But also a reminder
Of everything less than great.

Hurray to the sun,
The stars, the predictions,
And, consequently,
The way of life.

We're nothing less of our desires,
We're nothing more than our greed:
There lies our boundaries.

Doesn't matter what you think.

A little house
In a little town,
In a little state,
In a not so little country,
In a little planet,
Orbiting a little star.

It's not the walls that make a house,
But the air within,
The little breeze that refreshes
At specific spots on the living room,
It's the sound of voices still echoing,
Mostly about happy times,
It's the images reflected in pictures,
In the mirror, in our minds.
It's all we can't see, hear or touch,
It's all the color layers beneath,
It's all the invisible footprints
That creates stories out of pressure imprinted.

A house is everything but its walls.

I am not the sum of what I was,
I am the product of moments and feelings,
I am the rest of what divided myself,
I am the depreciation of values and d morals that does not fit me,
I am the interests of what I sow and grow,
I am the odd combinatory that detour normal standards,
But, in a smaller sample, I'm the mode.

I set myself as fractals and, therefore,
I discover in my elementary parts,
In cells, molecules and atoms,
My exact reproductions.

I am not an explicit fonction,
I'm not linear, but chaotic,
Exponential.
I'm always farther of what to be tomorrow
Than of what I was yesterday.

I can't say what I really want.
Well, I can, but I don't want
To say what I want
Although I want to.

I can't say I love you.
I want (to say),
I do (love you),
Somehow it's a mistake...
I'm just missing the senses,
Misreading the meanings,
Forgetting words of nostalgia,
A fugitive mind, in-betweens

What I really want
Is to undo the structures,
Go back to when there weren't
Words or concepts,
Just time to time
Pure living.
Presence.
Present.

But it's just past.
I'll always miss it.

It's not the light,
But the almost absence of it,
It's the improbable reflections,
The unconventional light paths,
It's the dance of imagination and odds.

The formless images
Clearer and more defined
In the measure they're abstract,
A curve and a straight line
Brought me the hammer and sickle
(What does that tell about me?),
And don't know for what reason
The other form brought me a dog.

What I see on the ceiling
Is the light of my open eyes,
My bleeding heart,
My calculist mind,
My fading memories,
All projected in a jelly
Of colors, messy patterns,
Of texture and ideas,
So maybe, through that,
I can see miles
Inside my own tiny body.

I didn't find the way out,
I didn't find answers,
I went through the longest path.

I've discovered new ways
When everyone said I'm brave
But couldn't support,
I've understood rules
When they stood in the way,
I've checked what was not
To be checked, just to see
How far I was gone.

All I learnt, all I'll learn,
It's useless unless
People.

It's not the routine,
It's not the daily walks,
It's not the regular fatigue.

It's the desire to remain in bed
after remain in bed after remain in bed.
It's the constant thinking,
The ever close but untouchable past,
The consuming fear of being no more than a name,
The wish to be altruistic in an egocentric body,
It's the fight against the fight,
It's the latent pain that never hurts
But about to burst, smelling all vulnerability.

I'm tired.
Of being
Tired.

Let yourself be lost
In the middle of a crossroads,
No destination,
No goal.

The ends do not
make the ways.

Where's the point that I'll break?
I'll break and I'll have no other option.
What a prison to have options,
What a limiting concept is freedom.

There's only freedom
In not thinking absolutely,
There's only love
In self interest in someone else's interests,
There's power
When there's nothing left to do.

Lack of choice
Exempts guilt and responsibility,
But cannot exempt life.
There's always life within choice.

It's a load,
It's all unforgotten unfinished dreams,
It's all the love that could be and want,
A lot of missing but doing the same stuff.

It's too much to bear,
It's all disappointments,
It's all the accomplishments that matters to anyone but you,
It's all the things you see and can't explain to anybody else,
It's all the experiences in your life you wanted to share but the moment's passed.

It's the struggle with time, actions and decisions,
It's all the worry about money,
It's everyone and just you,
It's the weight of knowing that it was you all along pushing yourself farther from everyone,
It's the deceiving lightness of being distant in a new city every 4 or5 years to blame geography and culture for being alone,
It's all of that and nothing apparently.
It's a lot of feelings, some this bad, others not so much (waiting for the right time to pop up).

And on top of that,
It still has blood to pump.

What we wanted
Didn't fit us anymore.
Fits us
That each should seek
I
Where there are no us.

I mistake what does me good
With myself.
I can only be one
In the presence of others
To bound where I fit.

I am dangerously propitious
To incompleteness
Due to the lack of world, of rain,
Of wasted shoe soles,
Of hoarse voice,
Of watching a complete turn of the sun,
Of sincere philosophies,
Of anarchist desires,
Of arrogant discoveries,
And of humble advices.

But even the incompleteness
Composes me.
The absences are what define character.

I choose to be in São Paulo
As someone who chooses to be born,
As if choice was inhabited
By the fragments of what wasn't chosen.

I choose this impossible arrangement
Of someone who is but does not want to,
Or who wants to be, but is not.
Of living here plainly
Without tearing,
Of a possibility to live here,
Without the sacrifice of living here,
Of a routine forged for chaos,
To shatter yourself to be a whole
Of 20 million stories.
Of this forever transit
To settle somewhere.

I let water almost boil
For the coffee that is more than coffee:
It's the content of your rhythm, your flavor
Bitter, despite the sugar,
It's your story and your present
(in heavy homeopathic doses).
More is told in coffees than in books.

If tomorrow the world contains you no more,
Everything will go on.
Except the choice of what I wanted:
I want you, even though it's a wanting of not wanting.