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.

Beauty lies in things
We cannot comprehend,
In the missing links,
The lack of logic,
Within craziness,
And yet, it's within all of it
Curiosity is awaken,
Like a warning that,
Even though in an obscure language,
Can tell where should we look.

The lines are too straight,
Circles are too round,
But the world is not,
Abstraction is mutilation,
But reality prevails,
And it is crazy, unordered,
Unpredictable.
We either be prepared or we don't.

The same roof keeping me warm and protected
Keeps me from seeing the stars.

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.

First there were farms
And we were worried
It would rain too much,
It would not rain at all.

Then came the cities,
Roads, cars, banks,
And we got worried
All life would drain
During a fatal robbery.

Then came the jobs,
And more jobs and
Lack of jobs, and
No matter what,
Money will be short.

And we worry now
Time is precious but
Viscous, uncontainable,
Irreversible, and to
Waste it is to die a little.

If everything is worrying
Why any of it is, actually?
Maybe its not a question
Of what is worrying, but
Of who is worried. Am I?

Every position
Is denying any others.
It is conquered
Through all that is learned,
Through intuition and grit,
And, that, is the only possible position
Oneself can be,
At those circumstances,
At that moment.

The result of billions of billions of billions
Of tiny particle forces,
Together in as much combinations,
To happen into only one solution.

Yet, time and time again
We divert that position,
That self constitution
Relative to the place of values
And beliefs and dreams and wishes,
Where we stand, bravely.
The distance between we and our ghosts,
The self imagined ghost,
Our own view from above
(untrue, but real),
This ambiguous gap
Eventually leads us farther,
Away from our core.
But be not mistaken,
We go. The ghosts stay.

The gap is only imaginary,
A concept, as any concept:
Ceases to exist the moment
It is brought to life.

I feel the Earth pressuring my feet,
Craving prints, marking the land,
Assuring my whole assembly up to that moment,
With that body, those clothes and that walk.

Wandering through different soils,
Gently and inadvertently projecting myself
Upward, resisting the whole planet with my foot sole,
With minimal contact to the ground
As if ballerinas were the natural evolution of mankind.

One can follow my steps
To see what I became,
Can look my footprints
And know if I behave,
Can track my shoe shopping
And know if I've been working.

It's in the way I walk,
Merely standing, barely moving,
Now and then falling, inevitably:
A certain disregard
Keeps me distant, untouchable,
I can never reach my old prints anymore;
The wind has blown them,
Rain has washed them,
But it does not matter...
It's just vanity.

He who sees me walking in circles
Can never know where I came from.

In the future resides the uncertainty of things not happened,
Of nothingness emanating from not coming,
Of factorial and exponential combinations,
Of haltered decisions,
Of the purity of lack of constitution.
Uncertainty is absolute, mother of delimitation,
Only it can, gently, cede into facts.

To be right is to be no thing,
Is to buy food and be given only the smell of it,
Is to deposit yourself over an abyss
Guarding yourself through a thin web
Of a sure death of faith,
Of a short present,
This present that, so certain and possible
That tricks.
That will, eventually, be once again uncertain
Through forgetfulness and intentions,
Fading fading until lost
In the infinitude of odds,
Rebuilding, then, the absolute pureness of hollow doubts.

Present is the time corrupted.

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 can always do better next time.
That's the curse of time:
The end is a never happening event.

There's no such thing
As a perpetual motion.

History isn't made,
Isn't told, isn't its registers.
History is screamed,
Shout without words,
As long the feeling is right.

For every action
There's an unequal voice
Roaring positively haltered,
Farming, dividing, conquering,
Cave by cave,
House by house,
City by city,
Until no desire is spared.

All that's left to do
Is screaming badly,
Be hard and be heard,
Out of tune
For other tunes to be discovered.

Shout, shout,
That's the only way
Reality emerge,
Only by scream, by sound,
That's how to honor
All the silence hidden
In fervent claims.

Shout who you are,
Shout the smell around,
Shout as the flowers could answer,
Shout louder than howls,
Shout hunger and richness,
Shout danger, shout peace.

Only unheard screams
Can be shut by the grave.