I once heard a story
That a man, alone,
Built his empire,
Dealt with all his ****,
Fought armies single handed.

He would follow his plans,
Be appreciated for his good work,
Defy all injustices,
Defeat his own corruption.

Of course it is a story,
Not because of all the accomplishments,
Or the act of bravery,
Open chest against the world.

What makes it unbelievable
Is remaining steady throughout it all.
To build oneself
Is to change oneself.

Feel
My
Changes.

I often feel bored,
Companies are not satisfying,
Plans are not fulfilled or fulfilling,
Work is meaningless.

I feel bored
And I don't know why,
Changes seem blasé,
News are outdated.

I feel bored,
Maybe it's just
My optimism that everything will be
What it might be.

Sweating I try to remember
The cold days I used to complain.
Then came heat
And I can no longer feel
The annoyance I once cursed.

I keep hating heat,
Hating cold,
Hating sameness.
Dissatisfaction is my engine.

Sixteen hours,
Three states,
Countless bridges and rivers,
A changing landscape,
Wheels rolling
To leave me
Somewhere,
Where the ticket tells me to,
Where I once were at home,
Where I see familiar faces.

I sometimes need static
To be able to bear dynamics.

In the march
There is always those on the front
The avant-gardé whose faces are seen,
Whose eyes reveal cruelty and tenderness,
Arms in hands,
Rapid thoughts of past and future,
A will to be anywhere else
And nevertheless proud.

To lay down the arms
Is not easy,
It is not only a question of position:
It is a message,
It is a gesture of grandness,
But a difficult one,
An act of love
Beneath all the violence,
Often unnoticed.

Armistice is the ultimate
Brave movement.

Who else has seen this trail,
Stepped in these grains,
Heard the same local noises?

There is no need for checkpoints,
Yet, they are extremely valued.
A possible third of a path,
Or almost entirely the path,
Who's to say?

Here I am today,
And nothing else is sure.
The end of a journey
Is not its destiny.
The end is always unexpected,
By definition,
Different from a destination.

Here I am
And it is the time
To choose where to go
Although where to reach
Is completely beyond my desires.

A silent approach,
Yet painful,
Makes gravity a little stronger,
Acting over thoughts
Draining energy
Through the cracks and pores
Of a body shouting
Untranslatable screams.

The challenge of finding a self center
Lead me into my extremities:
Left to right,
Up to bottom,
All the wingspan of my own being.

As I went left
I eventually caught myself
In the right extreme
With the same perplexity
Of Cook and Magellan.

Whenever an extreme was reached
A gravity, or magnetic force
Would push me
Into a lower place,
Almost indistinguishable,
Somewhat gray,
Somewhat colorful,
But always comfortable.

Every extreme
Are as close to each other
As they are distant to the center.

I am afraid
Of the stones I step,
Of the passing cars,
Of the sounds that fill the calm.

I am afraid
Of things that exist and are,
Of what I can eventually do,
Of the structures that sustain me,
Of the wind that disguises the heat.

This fear I carry
Is the fear of what I am,
Of the real, the idea,
Of what I think
Others think of me,
Of what could never be done
And I could only do.

I have this fear
Of the ridicule in myself,
That amuses me
To say embarrassing truths.

If there is a thing
Such as fear,
It is only a self fear,
The interrupted projection
Of a tenuous success,
Of the polite strength
Of words always half the way,
Seeking an order of a world
That no longer belongs to me.

Everything I am
And I would never allow me to be.
To fear is to be displaced of oneself.