I often misplace myself,
The wrong place and the wrong time,
The repeated search of a lightning
That, in an effort to not strike
The same spot twice,
Hits the exact same coordinates.

To place yourself is to create a label.
It is written in my packing:
Person, curious, kind, perfectionist, independent.
But the course of happenings is organic.
Rules are only a posteriori things.
I can't be a person because
There is no such thing as a person.
Curiosity is a movement,
Kindness, liquid.
Perfectionism, illusion.
Independence, a vague concept,
Lacking definition and sense,
Useless to be argued.

To be correctly placed
Is to be sole,
A desirable, painful choice.

Sometimes
We just need
To hack our own rules
Whenever we feel
They do not fit
Us, the moment,
The vibrations,
The intention
And the breeze.

Today I disobey myself:
To write
When all my cells tell me
To surrender to the deepness of a sleep.

There is a detachment I seek,
I can sense its lightness
To lead me to new routes,
Wander town to town,
But it is unreachable.

It is there in idea,
Form, smell, colors and shadows,
But never in walls, floors,
Treads, acting and feeling.

There is this impression
That I know what I want,
But that I don't know how to be it.
That I can't find the place to unearth it.
That I can't find the compass to point it.
And, drifting in the sea of everything inside me,
I lose myself in fake storms
Created to sustain my farce failures.

There is this light impression of control,
Of a premeditated operation, reasonable,
Which I carry at all times
Like coins in my pockets:
Don't know what they're there for,
And I'm always willing to give some to whoever asks.

But it is a light impression.
It is a fact, although questionable.
It is the principle of a doubt fed day by day
By vague thoughts,
As if they're thought by others through my mind.

It is the impression of a renunciation,
But I want it real.
As I want my breakfast
And healthy legs to move.

I want the softest of breezes
To carry me even to places
I don't want to be.

I recognize in your look
The burning of an extinguished fire,
A new warmth to resemble a cooled one.

I return to towns
I long ago left
And the lack of creativity
Of the street names,
Of the organization form,
All the details
Teleport me from city to city,
Benjamin Constant Street, Anapolis, to
Benjamin Constant Street, Ribeirão Preto, to
Benjamin Constant Street, São Paulo.

I could only climb one mountain
For the fear of resemblance.
Every uphill and every downhill
In the search of the first time,
The first feeling,
The never returning unexpected.

I fear resemblance,
I fear the repetition,
I fear the moment where I'll see life
From the rearviewmirror
For the path ahead
Is very well known.

We humans are so good
To see patterns
That even new adventures
Seem like dull routine.

The only cure is
To watch the sunrise
Three days in a row.

Freedom is to understand
What are the rules that imprison us
And use it to evolve,
Like the water of a river,
Restrained by gravity,
Keep going down
In order to grow
Inevitably to meet
A more tempered version of itself.

Every word
Invokes dozen books
Hundreds of stories
And all my 940 million seconds of life
Building up to a super story
In seek of a masterpiece
To say "I did it".

There will be no masterpiece.
All words found their way
Into a dance of images
To be where they fitted the most
With sometimes unclear roles
And an improvised script
Even after exhaustive rehearsal.

Negligence is my way
To be excused
For not having the right inspiration,
A sabotage
To bear a failure.

I should stand
Against a more primitive error
Rather than a sophisticated one:
The error of not bringing life to ideas
Instead of the error of a work done.

For more trying and less freezing.

We keep searching
Amplifiers to extend us,
We shout loud
To absorbing walls,
Sound proof, isolated,
Only to fail to hear our own voices.

It is a deed to all ears
To seek the frequencies,
The rhythm underneath
The hollow sounds of the surface.

We ought to peel
Watchful for signals
Of resonance,
Respect the echoes
That strengthen ourselves.

Life is revolving,
Every straight line,
Extended enough,
Will meet its own end,
Ending on a beautiful circle
To be part of a particular cadence,
Its own rhythm.

Everything can be measured
In revolutions per minute.

I knew what it was about,
I agreed and I wanted.
Turns out, things were different.
Now I want to explore further,
I want life to be more,
I want it to be transit,
I want melt things into fluidity,
I want to be unleashed,
I want be part of someone else's envy
(What does that say about me?).

I expected nothing
And yet, now I can't
Be where I was,
Contained.

It's not expectation that frustrates.
It is the void after a great experience.

A walk into the office
Is the run from the house
Where fears live,
Bills must be paid,
Food must feed,
Order must reign.

To walk back home
Is to run
From the anxiety
Of never have things done,
Accomplishments found like Dodos,
Value created as alchemists created gold
From nothing.

And our families
Are a bond with our past
Not so much relevant now,
But still a remaining bond
Of which getting rid of
Does more damage
Than sticking to it.

And our ideas of all of these
More harmful than alcohol
Drugs, cars, smoke, cancer,
War, conflicts, intolerance,
Cholera, ebola, hypertension,
Drowning, guns, police,
Sharks, snakes, angry dogs,
Earthquakes, hurricanes, flood,
Stairs, scissors, power plugs.

We are killers and healers
With the same vocabulary,
The same set of rules,
The same creation,
But it does not matter,
Things will happen.

There is a little bit of
Freewill for us to understand
It is only a part of the world.

I sorrow
For the choices
We do
In order to feel
Social.