Waking up
From a dream
Inside a dream
Where we
Were enough
We were
We're different
We're weary,
We've seen it
We'd beat it.

We'll do exactly
All of it,
But I'll do and you'll do.

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

Our stories are to be told
Even in things that tell nothing about us

I extirpate the existence from me,
Not into the void of inexistence,
But to now, where existence does not fit.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No words.
Sword on.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I'll say it plainly,
No hidden messages,
No flourishing,
No adornments:
I'll miss us.

If we have never discovered sinusoids
Any repetition would be unnoticed,
Time would be linear,
History would be unnecessary.

But every now and then
Numbskulls attempt
To awake buried ghosts
As if memory would only serve
To revive the past
Rather than being
An instrument for learning.

**** you mathematicians
For exposing the ups and downs
Beyond any logic of continuity.

**** anyone who can look at it
And still not see the pattern.

We live through encounters
In a space of prominently
Failed encounters.

What we'll meet
We'll only know
When we meet.
So what's with chance?
Whose fault it is?

Fault itself ran free,
Free to err continents and seas.
Isn't fault old news,
A worn coin
Recycled just for the sake
Of a conscience relieve,
A frailty of our self judgement?

There is always a quest.
But we don't find Grails at their ends.
Are the quests that turn
Into what we seek.

There are transformations,
Never endings.

He received this strange letter
By himself, in years yet to come.

"Everything's okay;
You've done well,
Earned plenty,
Been good,
Healthy,
Loved a whole life,
In colors and sounds and tastes.
Nothing missing,
Only now and then."

He put it on the table,
Glad that he would live
An extraordinary life,
Just before a self inflicted shot
Run over his head.

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

We are weak,
We can't handle completeness.
Time and behavior are strangers
And we try to conform them,
Configure into our limited view,
And we call it plans.

Yet, people, time, nature,
Movements, chances, impact,
All is uncontrollable.
Everything controllable
Is irrelevant:
What's the use in worrying about them?

Plans must be missing things,
Plans must contain lack of planning,
They are a learning process,
But we want them to be predictions,
The future to realize.

Plans are our incompetence
To comprehend the unexpected.
They are useful just as they
Remain unplanned.

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.

All I can offer is my boredom;
Everything else is already taken.
All my truths and myths,
What would be left
If I gave them away?

Piece by piece
My incompletude defines me.
My senses are left untouched,
My wounds, unhealed,
My thoughts, preserved
In an obscure way.

I give myself away,
And the more I give
The more I see,
The more I am.

When I'm lost
Nothing matters,
Just then can I discover myself.
Nothing more
Than a pool of desires,
Drowning,
Lifting,
Joking desires.

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.

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.

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.

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 many we do
To prive ourselves
From move freely
Within structures.

We commit to truisms
We say thoughts
Born in others' minds,
We take the easy ways
Only to be away
Of the responsibility
Of being free.

It's not that we don't want to be free.
We just don't dare to.

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.

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.

Happiness lasted
While we could feel
Skin and skin.

The dance of the days,
Compressed in our struggles,
Expanded in our thoughts,
Coloring the absences
With the most complex mix of ingredients:
Passion, pain, wanderer thoughts, missing, carrying, crying, jumping, yelling, silencing, grief and joy.

The last of the happy days,
Of those days where
Everything were re-doable,
The limits would keep us safe,
And I was proud.

From this moment
Nothing expects me
Except the certainty
That the happy days
Are rushing towards
The past, losing its smells and taste,
Like a voice, getting weak and distant,
Until nothing of it remains.

I was wrong to believe
That my pain would make me
A better person.

Wake up in the cold,
A hot shower will warm you.
Black coffee on a cup
Something to eat before leaving.

Such a normal day,
Such a normal living,
Such regular experiences,
But it's a new day and I know it.

The big lesson today
Is not to learn how to recover from a disaster,
Or how to live after a catastrophe,
Or how to keep on the happy moments.

Take a look on the left,
What's on your side?
Is there a special light beam
And an unusual position of some furniture?
Have you noticed the real color
Of your living room,
Of your hair,
Of your floor?

In such regular days
Living is granted,
Mediocrity is given (not in a bad way) -
It's just life on top of normality.
What's left for such days
Are the little pleasures,
The small tones of changes
From one day to another
Showing us through little,
almost imperceivable, gifts,
Of the grandiosity
Hidden within tenuous pieces of averages.

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.

I feel nothing capable
Of providing me a poem.
A weather report could be
As abstract as I am now.

In any instance of lack of creativity
I shall remember
My invisible world, although hidden,
Is there at any times,
Ready to conform
Ideas into anything sensible.

Full,
I am in most ways:
Loved, lived, livid.

Empty,
Spaces grow
When I pass:
Weeks, days, lengths,
Lands, roads, feelings.

I'm a point in nowhere
Incalculable in speed, in size
And dimensions,
Half here, half there,
Not mine nor others',
Just a vague matter
In a strange strange
Full-empty world.

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.

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.

If life were to happen again
It would explode
Into this,
This uncertainty,
This half lived moments,
In the mediatrix
Of fear and confidence,
Of poorness and night life,
Of starts and new jobs,
Of roads and destinations.

But this point,
From which costs more
To turn back
Than to move on,
It's the essence
Where meanings are not required,
But clarity:
What and why,
What and why,
What and why;
It is life itself,
Happening,
From opportunity to opportunity,
Floating just to decide
What's likely to exist
And what's not.

When I left town,
I meant to come back,
To turn my village
Into a great city,
Make it flourish,
But I'm not there,
And I ain't coming back.

My old street is my name,
My neighborhood, my family name,
Its lake is my busy calm place,
Its morals, my constant fight.

A town always wanting,
Waiting to be,
The capital of county,
The capital of the state,
The capital of hearts,
Trapped with a small
Megalomaniac obsession,
A misplace inside a panic room,
The dream of a solved traffic congestion,
A myth of buildings and skyscrapers,
A proud town,
Proud of all citizens that left,
Proud of all you can find in there
That could never be found three,
Proud of a growth measured by irrelevant mesures.

A great town,
Hidden in a beautiful valley,
In the middle of no paths,
More peculiar each day,
With decaying ideas
In the exact proportion
Of a growing population.

There is many of it in me,
But there's nothing there about me.

At some point
I'll let you down.
I don't like it,
But I'll do.

I expect too much of me
But I'm only a repeated self,
Running the board in circles,
Skipping houses from time to time,
But inevitably reaching endless wells.

It's not a lack of love,
It's a lack of self love.

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.

Inhale air,
Exhale your pain.
Don't search for mirrors,
Your reflex is irrelevant.

Be your own flower,
Be your own thorn,
Cry your own heart,
Learn yourself up.

There's a stop,
There's a fast lane.
Both exist for a reason.

We've got nothing about ourselves
But a room full of stories
Full of memories,
All we have is us.

If, at moments,
You feel like drifting,
Is just life taking control
Once again.

If we are all we have,
We are lonely,
But there's also
Only one way
To be strong:
Through ourselves.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

The world turns so
New things can happen
To reinforce
World exists.

Every repetition is a confirmation.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Beat, beat, beat.

You're alive.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We reflect ourselves
In everything we create
Hoping then to be mirrors.
Turns out, they're just
Aging photographs,
Revealing the time past,
Where we've grown,
Where we're stuck,
A passage from the past,
Untouchable,
But reachable,
Invisible,
But never invincible,
Just the remains
That we, inevitably,
Will lose.

I've seen you furious as a flower,
I've seen you sweet as a bomb.
I've seen us sitting on a tree,
I've seen us oceans apart.

I've seen so little, myopic,
I've seen leagues away.
I've seen indubitable truths,
And I've seen to doubt them.

I've seen my own way
In ways I'm blind to see now.

The world gets bigger
As I remove meaning oyt of it.

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

How I feel
About today, yesterday
And the day before:
I feel like
A building falling down
For being to heavy;
Like a car
Over a garden;
Like the rain and cold
Over the homeless;
Like a brick
In the ocean;
Like a fish
Trapped in a submarine.

I don't wish to die
For that would be
Sand in a desert.

I wish to have never existed

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

Everything else is luxury.