Difference can only be observed
With a deep and close look,
But connections can only be seen
Far above the clouds.

We are singular, we are plural;
Heisenberg could not be less certain.

I am the matter and the indivisible substance
Of exactly everything I am not:
A antithesis, a negative, a mold.
I am my exact surroundings
That did not fit in itself.

I am the being I did not chose,
And I chose to be everything that can not constitute in me.
I am all that I see,
And the only thing I cannot see is me.
Even my image in the mirror
Is my inverse, maybe even in the colors,
Who knows...

I am a history course
Incapable to drain in others.
The realization of the impossible
Within the boundaries of logic and entropy.

I am, and I am everything reflected in me,
Inside a non-existent world
That starts to exist in reaction to me:
Forces, gravity, gestures, breathing.

I am the cause of things
As much as I am an undesirable effect.

Compose my reality,
Warn me of last year fashion,
Or a poisonous frog in the jungle,
Be my guide, at least when there is light.

Be my virtuosity inside what's real,
The three dimensional message
To make sense at the failure of words.

If all fade, let the lack of colors
Inform the dawn of my days,
Or of my senses,
Or of hope.

Through greyness I'll distinguish
Light from dark,
But I'll miss all tones
To tell me the sphericity of the world.

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.

Hungry, but too tired to cook.
Sleepy, but too early to sleep.
Tired, but too anxious to relax.
Dreamy, but too awake to fly.
Desperate, but too incapable to act.
Conformed, but too eager to leave.

That is the only gate
To the way out.

Silence, for we sleep
The grave rest of the almost dead,
The silence coming from acute hearing,
And the freezing of acting,
The silence encouraging
the redemption of the guilty of doing nothing.

The silence required
To maintain trains on rails,
Strings *******,
Rollers rolling.

This silence of a profound trance
In a quiet city,
Revealing in its sobriety,
Repealing in its exclusivity.
The silence of the order,
The silence of the steadiness.

Silence, for we continue the journey
With different names and disguises.
Productivity has other names,
Other faces, other friends,
But, nevertheless, quiet.
All of them.

Silence is our synopsis.
Yet, every word shut
Shouts greater within
The walls of our skin.

Everything in reverse,
Everything that's not me,
The source of frightening,
The place absorbing my daily death
Until death is my only existence.

Today I'm not outside,
I'm just things within a skin,
A placeholder of DNA,
In the limits of logic, knowledge and
Some sort of physics.

The medium of all encounters,
The existence of existences,
Producer of consequences,
Determiner of behaviors,
Limiter of freewill,
A cat over my belly.

A former of images for my eyes,
Flavoring for my tongue,
Stimuli for the whole me:
That's the outside inside.

The hardness to make me hard;
The world so I could not be alone;
The time whenever I have a choice to make.
The decisions not taken,
The spaces not invaded.

Outside is the living place of reality,
We're just so inside it
Our greatness get lost
That certainty that all is just the same,
Different proportions, different orientations.
Different recipes for the same ingredients.

The outside
Is nothing but another point of view
From the inside.

Red blood, gray mass,
White cells, blue veins.
That's what we can see,
That's what's exposed.
That's the inside outside,
The wound after the accident,
The proof we're alive,
The probe of our species.

We're made mostly of things
We cannot see we cannot see,
So distant that galaxies seem nearby,
So inconceivable that reason triumphs,
So invisible that they govern our lives.
Fabrics within fabrics within fabrics,
Up to a point description fades meaning.

The inside is definition,
Is the medium of existence,
Light and lightness,
Thought and thoughtfulness,
The hardness required to be soft,
The content of a punch,
The reverse filter
(laisse passer le poison).

What's inside is our income and savings
From the world.

It's in everyone's faces
Where they're going.

The guy on the right
Eager to get home
Having watched television all night
Waiting someone to come.

The lady in front of me
All dressed for (I suppose) a new job,
That smile of excitement,
Getting used to the daily path.

The fresh eyes, certainly a tourist,
All is perceived by him,
Little things that are missed
By millions of people passing
Thousands of times through them.

The old lady, slow in her walk,
For sure fast in her mind,
Respected by most,
Invisible to some,
Carry few expressions above her wrinkles.
But her determination suggests
A recounter, a strong need
To put order to something
Long neglected:
A supermarket, helping a son,
Working extra time, a visit.

There's a guy reading
Any important book,
Hoping to come to be
An important person
(Isn't he?)

I might be wrong in all of it,
But for sure I receive those exact signals
I believe I'm receiving.

It hasn't anything to consistency,
Neither with rigidness.
It isn't a state of hardness,
Nor a form of perennial existence.

The ground is solid, but not rigid;
A carpet is solid, despite of softness.
There's solidness in the harsh feelings of parenthood.
Solidness means being contained
Within a specific space.
Solidness means being able to,
Whenever reached critical moments,
Acquiring liquid form.
Solidness means being elastic,
But only up to a point.

Weakness is not not being solid.
Weakness is just pretend
That being solid
Is the only state possible.

Any state can happen,
As long as conditions
Allow them to be.