It's not the routine,
It's not the daily walks,
It's not the regular fatigue.

It's the desire to remain in bed
after remain in bed after remain in bed.
It's the constant thinking,
The ever close but untouchable past,
The consuming fear of being no more than a name,
The wish to be altruistic in an egocentric body,
It's the fight against the fight,
It's the latent pain that never hurts
But about to burst, smelling all vulnerability.

I'm tired.
Of being
Tired.

Where's the point that I'll break?
I'll break and I'll have no other option.
What a prison to have options,
What a limiting concept is freedom.

There's only freedom
In not thinking absolutely,
There's only love
In self interest in someone else's interests,
There's power
When there's nothing left to do.

Lack of choice
Exempts guilt and responsibility,
But cannot exempt life.
There's always life within choice.

It's a load,
It's all unforgotten unfinished dreams,
It's all the love that could be and want,
A lot of missing but doing the same stuff.

It's too much to bear,
It's all disappointments,
It's all the accomplishments that matters to anyone but you,
It's all the things you see and can't explain to anybody else,
It's all the experiences in your life you wanted to share but the moment's passed.

It's the struggle with time, actions and decisions,
It's all the worry about money,
It's everyone and just you,
It's the weight of knowing that it was you all along pushing yourself farther from everyone,
It's the deceiving lightness of being distant in a new city every 4 or5 years to blame geography and culture for being alone,
It's all of that and nothing apparently.
It's a lot of feelings, some this bad, others not so much (waiting for the right time to pop up).

And on top of that,
It still has blood to pump.

What we wanted
Didn't fit us anymore.
Fits us
That each should seek
I
Where there are no us.

I mistake what does me good
With myself.
I can only be one
In the presence of others
To bound where I fit.

I am dangerously propitious
To incompleteness
Due to the lack of world, of rain,
Of wasted shoe soles,
Of hoarse voice,
Of watching a complete turn of the sun,
Of sincere philosophies,
Of anarchist desires,
Of arrogant discoveries,
And of humble advices.

But even the incompleteness
Composes me.
The absences are what define character.

I choose to be in São Paulo
As someone who chooses to be born,
As if choice was inhabited
By the fragments of what wasn't chosen.

I choose this impossible arrangement
Of someone who is but does not want to,
Or who wants to be, but is not.
Of living here plainly
Without tearing,
Of a possibility to live here,
Without the sacrifice of living here,
Of a routine forged for chaos,
To shatter yourself to be a whole
Of 20 million stories.
Of this forever transit
To settle somewhere.

I let water almost boil
For the coffee that is more than coffee:
It's the content of your rhythm, your flavor
Bitter, despite the sugar,
It's your story and your present
(in heavy homeopathic doses).
More is told in coffees than in books.

If tomorrow the world contains you no more,
Everything will go on.
Except the choice of what I wanted:
I want you, even though it's a wanting of not wanting.

I've seen you furious as a flower,
I've seen you sweet as a bomb.
I've seen us sitting on a tree,
I've seen us oceans apart.

I've seen so little, myopic,
I've seen leagues away.
I've seen indubitable truths,
And I've seen to doubt them.

I've seen my own way
In ways I'm blind to see now.

The world gets bigger
As I remove meaning oyt of it.

We live through encounters
In a space of prominently
Failed encounters.

What we'll meet
We'll only know
When we meet.
So what's with chance?
Whose fault it is?

Fault itself ran free,
Free to err continents and seas.
Isn't fault old news,
A worn coin
Recycled just for the sake
Of a conscience relieve,
A frailty of our self judgement?

There is always a quest.
But we don't find Grails at their ends.
Are the quests that turn
Into what we seek.

There are transformations,
Never endings.

In the absence of a future
To guide my past,
I carry the moment in my shoulders,
With any baggage within.

Let it explode the pain,
Let earthquakes build shelters
No calms can destroy.
Let pain explodes
For what I don't see
Is stronger than every color;
What I deny and exclude
Conduct me more
Than what I accept and embrace;
All that explodes
Cannot be hidden anymore.

I expose open wide what makes me small
For I choose to be great.

Inhale air,
Exhale your pain.
Don't search for mirrors,
Your reflex is irrelevant.

Be your own flower,
Be your own thorn,
Cry your own heart,
Learn yourself up.

There's a stop,
There's a fast lane.
Both exist for a reason.

We've got nothing about ourselves
But a room full of stories
Full of memories,
All we have is us.

If, at moments,
You feel like drifting,
Is just life taking control
Once again.

If we are all we have,
We are lonely,
But there's also
Only one way
To be strong:
Through ourselves.