Diminish the extensions
By being just you,
Your dreams,
Your reality,
Your musics,
Eventually, you'll cease.

Forget about yourself,
Lose the extensions of you,
Forget your endings,
Your arms,
Your fingers,
Your feet,
Your toes,
Your hair.

Then, all you'll be left
Is everything.

All of nothing,
Nothing of all,
The result is the same.

Round and round we go,
Afraid to have our time stolen,
Looking back,
Watching our backs,
Even though there's nothing left to lose.

We got used to the crust,
Living on the surface,
Immersion is hard, but there's nothing without it.
We dig oceans and oceans for some sort of glory
And left aside all deepness in speeches,
All humanity neglected, at a cost of our own.

I have not met true faith
Rather than a future always to happen.
I was not prepared to believe
Better times should escape in-between my fingers.

But the result is the same:
We fight for nothing about everything
Or we fight for everything about nothing.
We only get to choose the way.

Yesterday I was a worker,
Waiting relentlessly a month to end
For another month to end.

Yesterday I was strong,
Pushing tomorrows farther and farther,
Holding ideas as hard as I could.

Yesterday I was calm
As the sleep au Clair de Lune,
Unaware of its ill.

Yesterday my stomach did not hurt
Every time I heard non-sense stories
About who should control my body.

Yesterday I felt powerless, too.
I could not seek me for I was
Hid under the ground, neglected.

Yesterday I was trapped
To believe in freedom and love,
But they all revealed incompatible.

Yesterday I was dead,
Today I live, and tomorrow,
What's the point of it?
It'll eventually
Be another yesterday,
a day for mistakes and childish foolishness.

Reality is an echo, a reflection
Of what can be sensed;
Eyes and ears hammering waves
Into transitory states of comprehension.

It is only possible to sleep
After something is learned,
After changed a guard shift,
After dreaming awake the next dream.

Existence without sensing
Is just a storm, a hurricane,
Incapable of stopping,
An event only noticed from the inside.

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.

Every letter that drops
Must have a purpose,
Quarks of ideas,
Matter of all immateriality,
Sparks of virtual revolutions.

Eventually, we run out of it;
The train of thought slows down,
Out of coal, out of diesel,
Little by little synapses fail,
That black image is not just a tunnel;
It's the deep ends of the ocean,
It's the cold of a winter cloudy night,
It's just a pool of ideas,
Empty even on its color.

The more energy we put,
The more tangled the knot remains.
Useless to seek nozzles or drains;
All vanishes through the cracks of breathing.

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.

Life is the construction of a railroad,
avoiding past mistakes,
betting on a wonderful destination,
On a train, constantly accelerating,
Inevitably colliding at the end
Of what is left of a ****** landscape
With no rails to build on.

There is this only way
I know to keep me off track.
To imbalance processes and structures,
To make tremble foundations,
To fly wingless even if heavier than air.

Often I seek other tracks
In the same grid,
In the same territory,
Same landmarks to guide me by.
But it's not as disturbing,
Different questions arise,
And, although it is an entangled web,
Every string pulls oddly.

It's the path, this only path
I can ride on it in the dark,
      [I've been hit sometimes, but it's OK]
I even forget it's sinuosity,
New buildings often change its face,
And the only way to recognize it
Is my weakened knees,
My shivering skin,
For I can feel the world falling apart.

This only way, only road, only path:
words, words, words.

Everything is a lesson
That I am sure of.

I find it hard to understand
What is the course we're taking.

Life, love, friendship, work,
It's all a whole lot of baggage
To carry on from class to class
Only to find out
The only thing that matter
Can only be discovered
After the end of the course.

We'll learn what to do here
When we'll long pass being here.
The joke, my friend, is in all of us.