For any practical purposes
My body contains everything I own.
I do not own my food
Or my oxygen:
I steal them
From the land and the air,
For everything to be transformed
Into waste.

Nevertheless
There is an outer part,
Unreasonable,
Waiting for inconsistencies
To install itself
In the cracks of personality,
In the voids of indecision,
This part, insubmissive,
Remains unattached,
A slave of the lack of rules,
Traveling faster than light,
Unseen until a careful watch
Freezes its amorphous form.

There are complements of ourselves
On every surface touched,
Outer parts of who we are,
Of electrons shared,
Of not imagined interactions,
Rendering responsibility obsolete
Due to our limited capacity
To be affected
By the smallness
We are all made of.

I see perfection
In every bit of creation
In the mess I leave behind
After cooking a meal,
After planning a trip.

I demand perfection.
I see it, but I can't touch it:
It is an idea
Never to be complete.
To see is to rage,
To touch is to choose reality.

Mediocrity is necessary:
It is all that there is.
It takes eternal time
To reach any kind of completeness.
To exist is to be missing
Sense, parts, matter,
Soul, feelings, rhythm,
Nutrients, flavor, smell,
Roughness, silkiness, deepness.

Ten out of ten
Is a ridiculous possibility.
Six out of ten
Is a step into,
A plausible, reachable,
Achievable
Perfection.

Positively I crave a flag
Into where I want to be.
There is an itchy feeling
Urging from my gut
Saying in a strange language:
Claim this space,
Earn it, possess it,
Be it, live it, know it.

As I stand
I see the river flowing
Dividing territories,
Undecided, freely riding
Down the valley,
Carrying those
(often myself)
Rootless and unintended
To wherever gravity demands.

To stay is to be positive,
To be positioned,
It is to give name,
To draw a map
To be available
When anyone
Get trapped into
The vortex of wandering.

Over time, distances increase in matter.
As we start to perceive the world
Every other discovery is farther apart.
We learn only to left out of real knowledge.

As we grow older
We learn to put apart
Moments of joy
In between vast moments of production.

We slowly put distance
To subtle kindness
To others we know not how to call.

We get used to
Leave home less and less
- A different type of distance -
Until outside
Is a bleeding discomfort.

We talk slowly
In search of meaning
To fill filling silences.

We resign to see our brothers
Few times a year
Only to be thankful
To be able to see them
Only before their deaths.

We attach to ideas so much
Each time takes longer
For we to change.

Until, inevitably,
We are as distant as possible
To the present
And our lives.

What remains is only two options:
Death and schizophrenia.

The deepness
Avoids the surface to break up,
Just as time helps deepness
To keep existing.

For matter to be
It must be supported
By all that cannot be.

It is not important
How big a thing is:
its surroundings will always
be bigger.

To exist is small,
An irrelevant exception
To the greatness of
The infinite of openness.
But exceptions matter:
Bubbles are an insignificant,
Magically beautiful,
Exception of the vast air.
Ephemeral due to its
Lack of deepness,
Amazing for its frailty:
A perfect metaphor to life itself.

Down the road,
In between leafy trees,
There is a lone lamplight:
Sometimes steady, reliable,
Sometimes flickering randomly,
A mist of lighthouse
And faery fire.

Through its clearance extent,
The unseen horizon of its light,
Passes a man
After a woman.
Dark, light, dark.
Dark, light, dark.
And the sounds,
Untouched by the photons,
With accelerating rhythm,
Gives a sober dreary tone
To the undisclosed scene.

Not even the privileged highness
Of the witnessing lamplight
Could reach the sight of what happened.
Part of every eye
Are just not capable of see it;
Another part
Simply refuses
For the freeze of action
Would render all conscience useless.

The hidden darkness
Within every clarity
Contains more danger
Than all of them shades.

I will once again
Be deprived of rest
For the sake of movement,
For the economy,
For the reason,
For the fire in engines,
For pulps,
Bulbs,
Bulls, dulls and dolls.

Half words corrupted
For the increasing lack of control,
A time within my time
To mark hours within my hours,
Corroding my moments
Into a drifting yaw.

Ungoverned in direction
Of a natural collision
Against shields left behind,
Forgotten, but solid,
Shields against will,
Shields against pleasure,
Shields against animals inside,
Shields against killing time.

I anguish for the incompleteness
In everything I produce,
In the words I pronounce,
In the interruptions of flows,
I anguish for the circle has no end,
I anguish for the ideas that left untouched,
For the inspiration underutilized,
For the balance never to be found.

I anguish for I anguish.
There is no end
To what has no start.

Does it matter more
How intense I give myself
Into creating quality,
Content or just a process?

There is a fragment of unpredictable behavior
Where all of this components
Feed themselves
And we don't know
Where it begins,
Where it stops.

The only thing to do
Is trust whatever process
To evolve into a result.

Quality follows production.

I am in need of a routine,
A habit to keep me disciplined,
To maintain my goals on track,
To make my joy productive,
To put into the world
Everything I think
I can do to make it good.

Relentlessly I fight
This urge to reach greatness,
I feed the monster father of procrastination
Delaying laurels and rejection
For an inexplicable fear.

I need a routine
To allow me mediocrity,
And the immediate consequence of evolution.

I need to act,
More and more,
Frequently,
Carelessly,
Intentionally.

Act is the inevitable movement
That accompanies the one-way arrow of time.

There are hidden prices
To go through the highways.
The destinations are always known,
The landscape is known,
And there is only repetition.
Nothing is created, and
Movement becomes ephemeral,
Incapable of producing anything
That will outlive the own highway.

There are hidden rewards in clearing territories:
Everything is new,
Opportunities lie anywhere,
Everything will make you stronger.
But harshness comes alongside,
Callused feet, cracked hands to open ways,
Sleepless nights in a mixture
Of cold, fear and anxiety with the things to come.

There is no authenticity in routes already traveled.
In somewhere, still unaccessed,
Lies what composes us,
Our unique voice tone,
Our journey that might lead
To our potential super-humans
If we learn to use discomfort as a weapon
And comfort as a momentary prize.