Then I saw  the world collapse.
I saw life be swallowed
by hungry geological cracks
(don't know by what chance I escaped).

I saw mountains smashed
as if they were sand castles
by wild wind gusts.

I saw matter disintegrate,
I rode in a light beam,
touched accidentally an unnoticed electron,
and I watched from inside a chain reaction.

I read the book where lies all the rules
of every relation, of every physics,
and the letters started fading,
the sudden white pages would say no more,
these pages were now endless (but white),
and by my side volcanoes started spitting ice,
my body were now bigger than Earth,
that covered my body,
that covered Earth.

And, suddenly, all that were bad
were now good,
and I was judged by the people I helped,
and was punished by good behavior,
and was calmed down by deep darkness,
and what I did wrong freed me,
the cold burnt me,
the beauty hurt my eyes,
and thrash would raise me to sublime,
and when I jumped of the edge,
I felt the ground further in every second,
I felt the sky braking me,
I felt life run through my stopped heart,
and everything say goodbye in a deaf beat
produced by light vainly flouncing to avoid its end.

In the end, only I remained,
and nothing else matters.

We touch, and suddenly,
my mouth is the whole me,
and I give everything I know I am
(what remains of me
is everything I don't know).

I found you along the way,
and I found myself, then, happy,
for the chance that gifted me,
for the sky that smiled with all that blue,
happy for the chain reaction
of a cosmic accident,
a divine lapse,
that put us together, there, in the same place,
with all that contained energy,
the spark of a thirsty bomb,
uncontrollable, devastating,
a seducing destruction
of millions megatons,
semitones, shadows and lights,
skin tones,
skin, that I felt
cover my own flesh,
to enfold all my body,
completely blind, dumb and breathless
by a kiss,
as if the grass itself,
that bore our weight,
was our feet
burying and entangling themselves,
feeding just of ground, air, water,
glutting myself of everything I'm not,
like if the world, at that moment,
started to shrink and became small,
a little bouncing (untamed) ball
that we suddenly could reason
all its mysteries and secrets.

Then the air occupies the space between our lips
and everything returns to normal.

Questions hit me hard.
      Will I be successful?
            My roads lead where?
                  Why did I choose to be me?

Questions do hit me hard,
they hit me in forms I can't even feel,
in 5th or 6th dimensions.

Questions are an insult,
Doubts are heresy,
Doubts are immortal,
truths are fragile,
Truths are lack of intelligence,
but still I seek them relentlessly.

I'm broke to search things I do not believe:
to look for oceans inside a desert,
to look for laws and axioms in chaos,
to look for stories never to be told,
to seek and seek answers
that brings reasonable meaning to the world,
to **** absurds,
and to birth coherence.

I took things absolutely,
I believed unquestionably in nature's laws,
I believed in authorities,
I legitimated aesthetics,
I thought I learned,
I talked and spread words not mine,
I walked in firm soils
(but never knew their plasticity underneath me),
I assured,
I was,
I am

I.

Words
Are what I miss the most
When I try
to get to you

I resist the touch of your skin,
for your heart no longer touches mine.
I resist walking your streets
for my eyes cannot meet yours.
I resist your ideas,
for mine have grown.

The resistance is of my soul
that have seen other souls,
that cannot be mirrored in just one soul,
that cannot be filled by it,
that is fragmented in millions of souls,
millions of pieces, of faces,
of desires, of movements, of thoughts.

Every act is a resistance:
it resists everything except the act.
Like the air,
I expand until walls resist me,
and then I find the cracks and holes,
to meet the open air
where I can expand indefinitely.

I resist you, but I resist more
the idea of you.
Of what you mean to me.
I resist giving myself to you
for it is what my every cell wants,
but I'm afraid I could not
be a whole self again.

What would you do
with this meaningful part of me?

As I sit here writing
my heart beats like a hammer,
squeezing bitterly blood
to  trembling hands
busy writing words they can't understand,
guided by a brain that barely thinks now,
contained with anger and rage,
with eyes that only see red,
ears that only hear screams,
nose that smell iron and steel,
and a rough feeling in my skin,
everything flows devastating the surroundings
(but flows nevertheless),
I feel it in my toes, in my nails,
in the hair over my head,
my stomach starts digesting itself,
my gut warns me "something ain't right",
my muscles, now I remember they're somewhere,
they tighten up,
ready to fight,
read to fly.
I grow, I defy,
I occupy the space around me,
I resist,
I hurt me, I hurt others,
I scream, I lose my voice,
I write and I silence.

Then everything stops, and, suddenly,
the rapids flow into the lake.

Keep on turning, little gears,
keep the machine running.
Don't bother this feelings of yours,
don't pay attention to this pain.

Forget your thoughts,
I'll fix them all.
Be a leader
but not for yourself.
We'll tell you what to wear,
who to talk to,
we'll congratulate you
for an useless work
just to keep this little gear turning.

I don't want to see
your home or your family in your face.
If you smile, may it be
due to your achieved goal.

Everything I tell you
is for your own good.
I myself comply with all these rules.
I'm your boss and I have a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has a boss,
who has no idea what's happening here
(but he has the money, so that's okay).

Give me your time
(at full attention, please)
and I'll give you a purpose,
and I'll promise heaven on earth
fancy luxury cars and empty apartments
(just maybe, though)

Fighting battles alone
in a war that has been lost for ages.
Battles of inner struggles,
of incoherent thoughts,
of distant fading desires,
of contradictions that tortures our soul.

And you wake up
having lost a part of you,
stripped away cowardly
(and you can't even name by whom)

Loose in an uniform immensity,
in that different kind of void
with no lights, no moon, no stars
(but everything still visible),
lacking the soft and warm walls of reality (sanity?)
while time slowly escapes
the ropes of our perception,
wandering alone, with no air to breathe
Yet, unable to die.

Only then we are ready to realize
that every rule is useless.
Despair has taken over.

Only two paths can we take:
start from scratch
or fade.

No matter the ways we choose,
the ones we did not choose will be more numerous.
There will always be more personalities
than the ones we decide to wear.

I live as a boat that departs without announcing a destination,
choosing along the way which port to anchor on,
always regretful for the ports I did not choose.

I take with me a small piece of everything I have known
(and how could I not?)
so my memories cannot betray me,
so the places I have been can leave a footprint on me.

I follow this path blindly,
heavier at each step
(or with weaker muscles, I could not tell),
with burdens getting loaded and loaded,
with fears from other roads,
missing passions from other ports,
with nostalgia of passing landscapes.

I keep on walking to keep on living,
I keep on choosing some paths, abandoning many others,
Sad with every time I detach something,
Sadder even for the choices I did not make
(but did even if I did not want to),
I keep on sensing smells I never experienced,
touching flowers I have never seen.

I do not renounce what I leave behind
(Like Drummond: "from everything a little remained"),
but the directions I did not pick,
the river courses that never came to be,
the dry branches never to flourish,
the futures made impossible by my choices.

As I wash my hands on rough waters
I leave some of what I was,
some of what I think I am.
I let me go just a little
to keep on going.

All this ballast, this will to take everything with me
can do me no good at all
if my weight restrains the places I could be.

The paralysis,
the agony of unresponsive muscles,
the coward voice that barely moves the air,
the hesitation that confuses
what we are and what we are not.

This fear that makes me avoid
discomfort, pain, the unknown,
this fear guardian-torturer,
does not fit me no more.

The fear of the unreal,
the fear of the impossible,
the fear of breaking myself,
the fear of the fear,
the fear of the uncontrollable wills,
this petty fear that serves only itself,
that hits palaces, and houses and slums,
the fear of a dingy past,
or of an obscure future,
of the prophetic images of possible apocalypses,
professed by notorious atheist scientists,
or the fear of the science propagated by unbelieving priests,
or the fear of the starvation I never had (that made me obese),
or the fear of the accident I never experienced (that locks me home),
or the fear of the policeman and the thief (that armors my car),
or the fear of rejection I never suffered (that fuels my social life with happy pictures),
and the sum of all these fears, the ultimate fear,
the fear of never come to be what I dreamed to be.

Today, none of my muscles will obey them.

We live short lives
bounded by walls in houses,
by grounds under our feet,
by money in our dreams,
by glasses in our sights,
by fear in our endeavors,
by shame in our performances,
by blame in our relationships,
by attachment to objects.

We are not able to conceive infinity,
it remains just a concept, unimagined in our minds.
Infinity is the only absolute greatness;
all other greatnesses rely on where we stand.

Yet, we aim at grandnesses,
we aim to impact, to know and to be known,
to influence, to be liked, to be loved.
We aim our little stories
to be written over and over again
as if every repetition would keep us alive
but we forget:
our imagination is shaped by limits.

We will die,
our stories will perish,
our stone laws will turn into dust,
our countries will fold.
The sun will swallow earth,
and turn into a blackhole.
Everything shall collapse at some point.

Even our pain.

Convicted murderer locked in his cell
Watched by guards, news and defenders of morality.

They say about the case: "Thirty years? Too few!"
They say about the judge: "He's a *****!"
They say about the policeman: "He should have killed him!"
They say about the prisoner: "Human? No, he  ain't!"
They say about the dead: "He's a saint!"

We sleep peacefully seeing the beast jailed,
the criminal act contained,
as a reward for the things we were deprived:
The murders we did not commit (but wanted),
The aggressions suppressed (but wanted),
The lack of character we did not manifest (but, hell, we wanted!),
The sick look in the mirror we learned to mask.

Killing is not just pulling the trigger.
It is about the indifference,
about all the fingers pointing out failures,
about the accumulated pain of every struggle,
about greedy desires fueled by what we see daily,
about the lack of power, from cradle to coffin,
about the eyes we meet everyday but cannot see.

What is worth a fair sentence
over an ever unfair life?
What dose of love will fall
in the remains of a life built in such lack of compassion?
Why do we keep on returning to eyes and teeth
while Hammurabi remains buried for tens of centuries?

We do not fear the murderer,
we fear our own rage, our frailty and lack of control.
We proudly watch the misery of the prisoner
for we renounced the free animal
for the imprisoned human.

The freedom from inorganic paralysis,
The birth of information,
The cliché of the ephemeral,
The never ending search for complexity.

Is it just a temporary prison in our weak bodies,
in our insecurities, and our worries,
Or is it an unique cosmic opportunity
that we should exhaust every fraction of a second
into something productive, enjoyable and selfish?
How much would we sacrifice
To never need to deal with death?

Does it have a worth in itself
(therefore question it would be stupid)
or does it have worth for the things we can do with it?
Has the organic life any contribution except for life itself
(in a broad perspective)?

What makes life so great that makes it, though, small?
We try so hard to define it
and, yet, it is the most incomprehensible concept.
Tirelessly fighting against universal laws
of equilibrium and disorder and chaos and constancy
(will purpose subdue chances?)

Maybe, the greatest value of life is uncertainty.
Uncertainty of what is expecting us,
of what will we gain or lose,
of what will we experience,
of what is there to happen and to surprise.
But, most of all,
the uncertainty of what is not life.
Death is a part of life, and not its opposite.
The opposite of life is the certainty of the inanimate world.

There is a certain illusion
that arrivals and departures are different,
that ways are just obstacles that, in the end,
lead us to an endpoint.

They just lead us into new ways.

My ways feel the weight of my feet, my wheels,
of cars and buses and trucks and tanks;
they feel the weight of heavy conscience, of tears and of guilts.
And, in return, they lead us to who knows where.

We spend our entire lives building ways in forms of
bridges, roads, tunnels, trails and rails.
Leveling, tearing, drilling, exploding some ****** land
in order to get somewhere.

I walk through roads in neighborhoods
through books and program codes,
through notes in songs,
through colors in the sky,
through dreams and imaginations,
because life is the ultimate way:
from birth to death.

It would be unwise to believe that the way is not important

I do not know the colors I cannot see,
and the frequencies I do not listen.

I do not know the ideas that does not serve as mirrors,
and the images that are not my own.

The moon remains remote without my footprint.

Everything I know, I own;
What I do not know is not mine, does not fit me

I fear the unknown because I fear what I am not:
I fear my poverty because poor I never was
I fear death because dead I have never been
I feared light before seen it for the first time

But the unknown is bricks and frames of my creation;
I only learn from things that are obscure to me.

I can only truly learn what I fear.

Anxiety is the absence of present,
Is the thoughts forgetting the body
Is the victory of the boredom, of the things that may never be
Is the waiting in boarding room for a delayed flight (a real flight?)

It is the interrupted breath,
Missing the air, although sick of air,
To be drown in tricky small chances, holding up to impossibilities

The fear of incapacity,
Rejoice in our own setbacks,
The silent scream, aborted, buried in guilt, remorse and curses
To doubt yourself for no reason at all,
To live miserably and scare death itself with pain

Walk without ever reaching a corner.
To look for a bar and to not have a bar, or
To look for a bar, finding a bar and to not want a bar.

To **** and to account at the same time,
Close the eyes and see monsters,
Open the eyes and see monsters,
Attack the monsters with other stronger monsters
(who stop, smell your fear and end up turning against you),
To know that all monsters are yours,
Fed and incited by you like dogs in a junkyard
(at some point you stop to see your own body bitten to the bones by them)

It is to quench your thirst with poison,
Build up walls around yourself to protect from your own assaults.

Anxiety, my friend, is the rise of non-sense, of the unreal.
Past and future does not coexist with present.
Just wake up.
WAKE UP, little fool.

I am a profound reflection that I do not exist
I only exist when I think I don't exist
I am less things
than the things I imagine I am

I am the lack of confidence
That comes from I don't know where
Or maybe from the confidence
others have for me

I am in a world that does not accept
what is not from the world

I am a peaceful way of life
emerged in a restless context;
a lack of things to do
drowned in chaos

I am what I were not
but I am what I would never be

I am the one who lost something in the way
and never stop to get it back

I am the one who found something
and not knowing where to keep it
lost it in the same place where I always lose things

I am the one who searches
only what cannot be explained
and loses interest after the explanation
and becomes obsessed to explain

I am the one who mistakes what I want
with what I want to want

I am the one who kicks everyone out of the party tired of hosting it
and locks himself out
without knowing how to come inside again
and stares at all guests on the street ashamed

I am the one who does not believe
in anything I cannot be
but never accepts anything I propose myself to be

I am the one who knows
that I'm no more than an idea of myself
and yet, the one who does not let go of this idea

I am all the contradictions I truly believe
(and by believing them, I disbelieve them)

I am so selfish that I care only about others
and forget myself inside my frailty

I am what I should be
although nothing should I be