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It's only through wisdom an sapience
We discover the reverse aspect of life.

The imprisoning freedom,
The life lost through joy,
All the lightness that we struggle to carry,
The darkness that reveal all the surfaces and texture and colors,
The pleasure we trade for pain,
All these symptoms
Of a pulsing life
That dies young and is born old.

We can only foresee our future
Looking through rearviewmirrors
Pasts lying ahead,
Waiting for our mistakes to be repeated,
Hits that perfectly miss the target,
Just to see the pointing arrow
Always running against the flows of time.
Oh saudade,
How I miss you...
Suddenly, you became
An index of happiness,
My measure of success,
And, yet, although all is missing,
I miss you: you failed me.

Distant meadows
Hide your shallow substance,
But I'm here, nurturing you,
And missing you,
Missing to miss.

I miss you so much
My feelings have got sick,
Faded, faded, disappeared.

Haven't I got mad;
It's just the cold weather
Remembering me
The warmth of your coldness
Where to dock
If lonely ports don't attract me
And crowd ports scare me?

Where can have so much life
That one can only be satiated of it,
Where is that curiosity,
Of so much healthy, bores me,
Where is that so many salty tears
Can fill my sweetness?

Why am I so afraid of life
Of all my crying is for having it too much?
All this health sicken me,
I sink my ship in the middle of the Atlantic
So, maybe, I'm reborn in Pacific.

I've lived intensely the middles:
I came from a mid-sized town
In the mid of Midwest,
Found myself in midtown of a big city,
In the middle of extreme and opposite opinions,
With an older and a younger brother,
Half way of where I judge myself capable,
Half lonely, half accompanied,
In the middle of people (never in their extremes);
Immensely in the median  disequilibrium.
Life is the exhaustive experience of absurd:
More than this is inconceivable;
Less, it's just insulting.
Sometimes I'm a poet
But most often
I'm an ordinary forger,
Torturing words
To fulfill my sadist desires,
Watching them cry out loud
Meaningless combinations
Purposely vague to seem intelligent.

I never played around
To see what could I do.
What could I've done?
What would I've done?
Would I change the world,
Be a tyrant advocate
Of reason, of equality, of mercy?
Would I at least understand
Why I keep my bed
Always facing the (shut) door?
Or I would be the same as I am
Running over and over
For something different
That never meant to be,
And find myself
From time to time wandering
What could I've done?
What would I've done?

We are shy to show
The little tiny mess we're made of,
Like a thief,
We hide what reveals us.

The orange night sky
Says more about my city
Than the heaven above it.
I only wished to be your balloon,
Side by side flying
Guided by our inner winds
And the blows the world gives us.

No more being somewhat hidden in the bushes,
Half shouting, half shut,
Waiting for a response
Long ceased.

Life only makes sense through life,
Anything beyond that steals its sense:
If I ought to live for love, or for money
I shall live less for life.

And the blows,
Those blows ahead,
Know nothing about life,
Our about nothing.
Therefore, life remains hermetic,
Sealed within the boundaries of grandiosity.

Anything less than this is unfair.
The day ends
With another dose of order.
Million heads inside each one
Standing on bus stops,
On the way home to work to home to work
Missing the *****,
Missing the dancing,
The movement.

All enclosed
(Myself included)
Within imprisoning sounds,
Engine's music or music's engine,
Whatever works;
Feeling ***** through unacquainted eyes.

My voice shut
For I know the disease, the medicine,
But I know not the wellness;
I know rolling wheels
Riding over what I've been at some point in life.

I'm just missing a cross of eyes.
I leave behind
the matter that carried me on,
I vanish in the air
like the smoke of an almost off cigarette.

The lightness becomes heavy,
like a stuck anchor
of a ship that must sail.

To retain life in my hands
is to die little by little,
die of steadiness,
die of lack of excesses,
die of a not exhausted life.

Re-write my own story
is to **** who I have been,
undo the trips I have done,
swallow old laughters,
live backwards;
what I am and what I did
could only lead me where I am now.

I expect a great past ahead of me.
He received this strange letter
By himself, in years yet to come.

"Everything's okay;
You've done well,
Earned plenty,
Been good,
Healthy,
Loved a whole life,
In colors and sounds and tastes.
Nothing missing,
Only now and then."

He put it on the table,
Glad that he would live
An extraordinary life,
Just before a self inflicted shot
Run over his head.
Distances prevail,
The spaces between us remain.
I take one more step,
One step closer to a free fall.

Solid grounds we miss
Greener fields we seek
On the other side of the abyss;
Bridges are yet to be invented.

There are more mysteries
Than chemistries,
More sand than mortar;
The life ahead is always bigger
Even if all life should perish today.

All it takes is a leap.
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