To become a poem? No. It is not a “becoming.” It is a de-forming. It is a slow, un-thinking violence against the self. First, you must lose your name. You must stand before the abyss of your own Sunday afternoon and realize that the bridges are not just burning, they never existed. There is only the now, and the now is a cold, bright blade. I do not swim. To swim is to have a destination. Instead, I drown a little every day just to see what the water knows. Do you understand? It is not “resilience.” It is a … Continue reading The Breath of the Thing

Do not think you are a solitary traveler; you are the embroidery and the Weaver is ever-present. I bow to the companions who have walked beside me, those who saw the thirsty garden of my soul and offered the water of their presence. You did not just listen to my words; you sat with me in the silence between them. To every heart that opened its door when I knocked in the dark, you have become the very breath that keeps my own spirit rhythmic and alive. Blessed be the ones who stood firm when my inner oceans turned stormy. … Continue reading The Caravan of Hearts

I will make my bed in the ocean, not to sleep, but to dissolve. It is a slow, liquid demonstration in helplessness, a surrender so absolute it borders on a terrifying freedom. To lie there is to finally stop screaming. Take my salt. It is not a gift; it is a sacrifice of the blood. I give it to the water because I can no longer carry the weight of my own flavor. They say growth is a daily practice, a right exercised by the living, but I suspect it is actually a quiet, rhythmic agony. I am shrinking. Or … Continue reading The Ocean of Being

Não sei. É de uma ignorância mansa que falo, uma cegueira que me tateia os olhos. Não entendo como se pode trair o próprio sangue que corre nas veias de um povo, nem como a bala, esse metal frio e sem alma, ousa interromper o mistério de uma criança. A terra treme. Ela tem peso, ela tem febre, e nós, em nossa redoma de vidro, fingimos que as mãos estão limpas. Por que o silêncio se tornou o nosso único teto? Quando foi que confessar a própria angústia virou uma nudez proibida? Eu não sei. E esse “não saber” é … Continue reading O Não-Saber e a Graça

We exist in a fractured reality of observers and doers, where life does not flow—it collides. It strikes against itself in a fever of conflicting meanings, until everything seems contradictory to its own reason. I look at the colors of our world and feel a sudden, sharp vertigo: Black feels way too dark, a mourning that never ends, and White is too revealing, a light so clinical it strips the soul bare. Is there truly a season and a reason for all things? Or is that just a story we tell to keep the abyss at bay? The Hunger of … Continue reading The Collision of Being

This love is not a passing feeling,not a sweetness that drifts in and out like a shy breeze,nor a momentary peace that settles only to rise again.It is the fiery, relentless forcethat keeps the stars from falling out of the sky,the hidden engine of every heartbeat,the ancient music that refuses to stop singing. And so we step into the turning of the year: New Year,New sensations,New chances,Same dreams,Fresh starts. Let the fire within you burn brighter than the sun that rises.Let the dreams you’ve carried through every seasonunfurl their wings at last.Let every chance find you ready,every sensation awaken you,every … Continue reading Beloved,

O tempo, esse senhor de passos largos e silenciosos, não pula o cercado de ninguém. Ele passa para todos, visita cada quintal, deixa a poeira nos móveis e o amarelado nas fotografias. Mas ele guarda um segredo: a maturidade, essa mansa senhora, não se senta à mesa com qualquer um. Ela escolhe bem com quem deseja compartilhar o pão e a palavra. A maturidade não chega de enfeites. Ela é como uma moça com rugas evidentes, caminhos traçados na pele que contam histórias de risos e de prantos. Traz os olhos cansados, sim, pois já viram muitas luas e muitos … Continue reading O Alento da Maturidade

I am tired of the arithmetic. This cold, calculated math of “getting to know” is a violence against the instant. We sit across from one another like statues in a museum, exchanging polite, hollow words that are nothing more than dust. A date? No. It is a programmed ritual, a slow suffocating under the weight of a table that separates my knees from yours. I do not want the “across-the-table.” I want the floor. I want to eat pancakes in the dirt of the everyday, watching a flickering screen that means nothing, because the only thing that is—the only reality—is … Continue reading Hunger for the Instant

Escrever não é um ato. É uma fatalidade. Comecei quando entendi que a palavra não serve para enfeitar, mas para tocar o fundo do silêncio. A poesia… ela não me pede rimas, nem essa matemática árida de metros e sons compassados. Isso é o exterior, a casca. Eu busco o que está vivo e, por estar vivo, estremece. A poesia é o sangue que corre, espesso e quente, nas minhas veias. É esse pulso no pulso, essa batida clandestina que me avisa que ainda não morri. É o tutano, o centro branco e secreto dos meus ossos. Sinto-me possuída por … Continue reading O Sangue em Mim

The old words? They’ve grown weary, like shoes that walked too many miles. Let’s leave them at the door. They did their job—they spoke our secrets and shared our bread. But look! The calendar has just opened its eyes, and it’s still learning how to stammer. To finish something is just a way of clearing the table for a fresh snack. We carry our past not as a heavy trunk, but as a small, polished stone in our pocket—a little weight to remind us we’ve been somewhere. Don’t wait for a “fresh canvas.” Life isn’t a museum; it’s a sidewalk … Continue reading New You, New Year!