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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
Oh saudade,
How I miss you...
Suddenly, you became
An index of happiness,
My measure of success,
And, yet, although all is missing,
I miss you: you failed me.

Distant meadows
Hide your shallow substance,
But I'm here, nurturing you,
And missing you,
Missing to miss.

I miss you so much
My feelings have got sick,
Faded, faded, disappeared.

Haven't I got mad;
It's just the cold weather
Remembering me
The warmth of your coldness
"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.
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
Life is the exhaustive experience of absurd:
More than this is inconceivable;
Less, it's just insulting.
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.
Walking with tight shoes
One meter sight ahead,
Trembling, feet by feet on a wonky land.

My bones cold,
My fear well fed
By imaginary hands,
And food nevertheless real:
The end of the alley, cornered.

One year, one month,
Silly calculations of an inexact variable,
My head up and down
Of every thought,
Short lenses,
Missing landscapes,
Loud chaotic songs,
Distracting every bit of me
In bits, bytes, pixels and inches
Of an infinite and small creation.
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.
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.
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,
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.
Every attempt to reach an answer
Is wrong fundamentally:
The premise that there is an answer.

Truth is only found
Where it cannot be sought;
Every rationalization is a lie
That, nevertheless, makes sense
If we believe in it.

Pure truth is overrated
For it is real
And real we cannot conceive.
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.
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.
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.
The world expands irreversibly
With every new event
Thus, the only way feasible
Is into the unbounded
possibilities of the future.
I want to see the rebirth
Of the poetry in everything
That made me dust and shadow,
That absorbed the glow
Into a processed good
To be used as per convenience.

I want to see the light
Hidden in every despair,
The day we end struggling
For we just see no reason anymore.

All the prophecies failed,
The stars are useless,
The books, blank,
We can only count
On our 50 years (or less) left.

Fate gave up picking chances
And we must star the play.
I see that light.
I see the light bright burning my forehead,
Watching me and making me watchable,
The light of the stage
That covers the sight of the audience.

I want to read the full script
Where we reach the turning point,
The plot twist to a different end,
The story where lessons are learned,
The story where memories are clear.
It is not a matter of hope
But of evolution, survival.

With so much in our hands
We can't choose what we want
But we keep on grabbing
With the fear of being naked again,
A cave man with nowhere to go,
The fear of being powerless
Even though we give power away.

We can only have so much
When we have nothing instead.
The art of losing isn't hard to master
Said a poet once.
It is.

Unless we have no choice.
Let life resonate.
Pulse, pulse, pulse
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 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.
What are we but fishes?
We are baits,
We bite what we are
In the quest to seize
The little life
Tied to what
Wants us bones
To be an artist
Is to drain oneself out,
To overflow life and moments and thoughts
To blow away its content
Like a balloon
Refusing to explode.
In this story
Nothing is about life and death:
Everything is about life and life,
The life that has been seen,
That has been wanted,
That was never imagined,
And that was never possible.

Death is a solved problem:
We die.
Even suicide is to think about life.

To live is to decide.
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.
Maybe the future
Is our maximum possibility
To build the bridges
Between what has been
And what insists to be.

It is where there is permission,
The chance in raw state,
The only place where ambiguities
Reside peacefully.

In the future I dissolve
The cuts from today
And if, from what has not yet been,
I think of what is now,
I make things differently from what I would
And life is no longer the same.

If the becoming
Is so substrate,
All that not yet exists,
But somehow arranges in-between my ideas,
Create parallel futures
Of such unreal things,
They mirror the world such as it is.

To realize what does not exist
Brings life to emptiness.
There is no "not be" -
It s extremelly unstable -
For thinking it is creating it.

The becoming is microexplosions
of the instability of the "not be"
That soon morphs into the most probable
And everything is just exactly as it could be.

Change precedes the existence.
A mattress to the floor
Bent, thin,
Something to soften
Its rough fabric
Is enough to hold
My every regret.

The sleep is heavy,
The mind is light,
Sometimes even
With reasons not to be.

There is something
Like a survivor instinct
That makes me forget
Damage, bruises,
There is a certain dementia
To keep things going on.

The mattress
Is now
About to merge
To the floor.
My new bedroom
Is the closure of a history,
A roller coaster of joy,
Boredom, unity, experiences and routine.

My new bedroom has a beautiful morning light
To wake me up early
To remember of a work to be done,
Of a walk out of home.

My new bedroom
Is my new status
Half way to freedom,
Half way to be stuck to my past,
Half way of happiness,
Half way of longing.

My new bedroom
Is a statement of my privacy
Although I often feel naked anywhere.

My new bedroom
Contains my vision,
My order,
My mess.

My new bedroom
Is the sign of movement,
Of stepping forward,
Even though it is inside the same house
With the same inhabitants,
With the same routine.

It is just a bedroom.
It is all that is different.
It is a conquest.
It is nothing more than a small change.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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.
Take it, last or not,
feel the hot air inside,

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.
Every fight
Shall be forgotten
Even by those who fought them.
If not the battles,
At least their reasons.

So much has been conquered,
So much left to be.
Every step back
Will be a leverage
For a stronger step forward.

I shall lose my whys,
I shall diminish the need
For further fights,
But I hope at least
To keep believing
In a brighter future
Always to come.
There are many things
That burn
And are not fuels.

Curiosity burns
When we are in doubt,
Minds burn
With ideas that are to big for them,
Even coldness burn:
We freeze, and it burns,
When we miss
The velvet touch
In our souls.

Most of all,
Forgetfulness burns
For, more than exist,
We want to be memories.
Every calm lies fury within.
Like flowers on a tomb
Of an unexpected death.

It is the inner aggression,
The forgetfulness of the world,
Calm is ancient and, as such,
A vestige, the remnant of existence.

Calm is remote,
Keeps us faraway,
It is the missing ship
Never to arrive.

Where there is calm
There is latency
Of a sleeping giant,
The  outlying asteroid
Sudden to collide in an Earth's desert.

I want to act above calm
So, in fury,
I'll let peace reign.
Remind me
Of my lack of sleep
Of my favorite singers,
Of the irrelevance of politics,
Of tenderness,
Of despair,
Of unexpected beneath predictability,
Of purring,
Of tiny paws,
Sharpen nails over my shoulders,
Of big swinging bellies,
Of strange sounds.

They remind me
Laziness is a virtue,
A kind of resistance
To the big city pacemaker.

The cats
Look at me
With blinking yellow eyes
To remind me
To be naked of thoughts,
To forget a bath,
To bring back
The humility of allegedly
Superior intelligence.

The cats cry
For we forget
How to be comfortable
With our own loneliness
When all we had to do
Was to walk around the house
Like it was the first time.

Every discover
Is a new way
To start
Things we do
Every day.
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.
If you could only see the moon
I see now,
But our eyes are opposite direction,
With our sights never to cross
One another.

I remain the same child
Forever fearing being abandoned,
Being abandoned
For fearing abandonment.
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
Love just for a moment
Is to love forever,
Even if love is over.
Life is a never ending circle
(Or a one time ending)
Of breaking down and recovering
Breaking down
Breaking down.
"Where" is any junction
Of two spaces,
Two parallels in the common infinite,
Finally touching,
The realization that all extremes meet themselves
Like the skin-envelopment of a body:
Everything closes in themsleves
Inside something bigger.
There is nothing analytical in it,
But two curious eyes
Dissolving what t sees
To avoid the certainties
Of this hard, impassable world.

All movement is a rearrange,
A fugue or search for balance,
But never indifferent.
There are potentials everywhere
And there is just where we get the discomfort,
That thing that puts us in movement,
That air mass that occupies
What just a moment before was my body.

All that transforms
Leaves behind
Traces of the irreversible,
The dust that no longer will be soil,
The cracks that no longer will be building,
The explosion that no longer will be bomb.

All encloses in the extremes.
The coldest cold, absolute,
Lean lightly absolute hotness,
And the dichotomy disapears,
Everything ends up in a circle
And what once took far
Can only lead to the starting point.

The farther we can go
Is the exact place we are.
Red lights around,
Low movement,
The hot air
Just above the ground,
Freezing cold above it,
And the foggy view,
Precising my coordinates:
São Paulo,
The instant karma
Or no karma at all.

The eternal rumble
Humming like Mutants sounds
Confuses my nostalgia
(What is it that I'm hearing?),
And the more I stay,
More roots turn to branches,
More passing faces seem familiar,
And your songs make deep sad sense,
Losing the sadness, losing senses again,
Never ever the same.

A city,
Just a city,
That wouldn't meet
Self esteem if it was not
For the brizzle.

You resemble anywhere
As long as one sees
Signs and the streets' names,
For no one resemble you,
But, yet, all is contained.
The right and the wrong,
The worth, the width,
The asphalt and the airplanes,
The loneliness, the crowds,
The invisibles
And the acquainted that never crossed by,
All circumscribed within the limits
Of your endless boundaries.
Today's gray heaven
hides a bright sky
above the clouds.

Heaven, the Earth's limit,
seems closer today,
in a homogeneous,
tedious gray.

Distant buildings,
somewhat tall buildings,
seem like a printed landscape,
almost as gray
as the gray cloudy sky.

I can hear fading airplane sounds
hidden in the vast grayness,
and I can hear pigeons
competing against cars,
singing joyfully,
ignoring (so I imagine)
the lack of color above all.

Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.
Still not warm,
still not bright,
but there are definitely
light beams bravely leaking
through deep, depressing clouds.
What we wanted
Didn't fit us anymore.
Fits us
That each should seek
Where there are no us.
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
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