The real difference between
Failure and accomplishment
Is none.

Therefore, I wonder sometimes,
Why do I still bother,
Keep moving challenges and adulthood
Forward?

Time to time
I want nothing
But to watch a loud clock
Go by a whole round.

Just
Fall
Asleep.

I am seasick,
And I am homesick.

I feel at home cooking,
Using my own restroom,
When I know streets, paths, regions, even trees.
I rarely feel it, but I sometimes do.

And it's good.

Feel at home is ambiguous,
Comfortable and redundant,
Brightless and efficient,
Lazy and unstoppable.
Feel at home is time and space independent,
Can be and not be, at the same moment,
Quantically.
It's, in all forms,
The wish to be somewhere
Never to be found,
And, yet, always revealed.

Impossible.

Heights and short trees,
Hot winter, red stones,
Cold water, abundant falls,
The pale green leaves
And unforgiving blue sky.

These words,
Although accurate,
Could not be more wrong.
Guimarães is your name,
Only freezing bones
In freezing was can tell
The truth about you:
Nothing human is found in you,
Not even the humanity of people
Imprinting landscapes through our half known truths,
Touching the imagination of our history
Hoping our shouts to be heard
For these same people, in the future.

Nothing human:
All is magic.

Through fissures of the world
We build our knowledge,
Through fissures between us and others
We construct relationships.

Through fissures in time
We try (effortless) to predict future,
Understand past,
Control present,
But it's all fissures.

All but little cracks,
Percentages of reality,
Small parts of the world
That we are able to capture.

We cannot live life in completeness.
We are built through our fissures.

The longer the roads
The more we have of ourselves.
Landscapes pass through
Without alarm,
Until we're awake.

Mountainside are a sculpted beauty,
The solid of geography,
But also a reminder
Of everything less than great.

Hurray to the sun,
The stars, the predictions,
And, consequently,
The way of life.

We're nothing less of our desires,
We're nothing more than our greed:
There lies our boundaries.

Doesn't matter what you think.

A little house
In a little town,
In a little state,
In a not so little country,
In a little planet,
Orbiting a little star.

It's not the walls that make a house,
But the air within,
The little breeze that refreshes
At specific spots on the living room,
It's the sound of voices still echoing,
Mostly about happy times,
It's the images reflected in pictures,
In the mirror, in our minds.
It's all we can't see, hear or touch,
It's all the color layers beneath,
It's all the invisible footprints
That creates stories out of pressure imprinted.

A house is everything but its walls.

I am not the sum of what I was,
I am the product of moments and feelings,
I am the rest of what divided myself,
I am the depreciation of values and d morals that does not fit me,
I am the interests of what I sow and grow,
I am the odd combinatory that detour normal standards,
But, in a smaller sample, I'm the mode.

I set myself as fractals and, therefore,
I discover in my elementary parts,
In cells, molecules and atoms,
My exact reproductions.

I am not an explicit fonction,
I'm not linear, but chaotic,
Exponential.
I'm always farther of what to be tomorrow
Than of what I was yesterday.

I can't say what I really want.
Well, I can, but I don't want
To say what I want
Although I want to.

I can't say I love you.
I want (to say),
I do (love you),
Somehow it's a mistake...
I'm just missing the senses,
Misreading the meanings,
Forgetting words of nostalgia,
A fugitive mind, in-betweens

What I really want
Is to undo the structures,
Go back to when there weren't
Words or concepts,
Just time to time
Pure living.
Presence.
Present.

But it's just past.
I'll always miss it.

It's not the light,
But the almost absence of it,
It's the improbable reflections,
The unconventional light paths,
It's the dance of imagination and odds.

The formless images
Clearer and more defined
In the measure they're abstract,
A curve and a straight line
Brought me the hammer and sickle
(What does that tell about me?),
And don't know for what reason
The other form brought me a dog.

What I see on the ceiling
Is the light of my open eyes,
My bleeding heart,
My calculist mind,
My fading memories,
All projected in a jelly
Of colors, messy patterns,
Of texture and ideas,
So maybe, through that,
I can see miles
Inside my own tiny body.

I didn't find the way out,
I didn't find answers,
I went through the longest path.

I've discovered new ways
When everyone said I'm brave
But couldn't support,
I've understood rules
When they stood in the way,
I've checked what was not
To be checked, just to see
How far I was gone.

All I learnt, all I'll learn,
It's useless unless
People.