I have phases, you see, irregular, moon-swept intervals where the ink refuses the page and the charcoal shudders against the paper. On these days, I am nothing but a collection of silences. I allow my own smallness, that cramped and shivering thing, to invite the stupid fears in. They do not just visit; they tame me. They sit in the center of my chest like heavy, uninvited guests, and I forget how to breathe in the language of creation. Sometimes, I simply do not believe in myself. It is a dizzying lack of gravity. But it is precisely in this … Continue reading Phases

Existe, e como dói esse existir silencioso, um exílio que é puro sopro. Um segredo dito em voz baixa, bem ali, onde o mundo desiste de ter bordas. É um lugar que não se explica, apenas se é. Fica escondido atrás de uma porta qualquer, dessas sem maçaneta, situada no sótão alto da consciência, onde o pó das certezas ainda não assentou. É uma fresta. Estreita, etérea, quase um erro de cálculo no espaço. É por esse vão que eu escorrego, fugindo do cansaço das horas, do caos que grita lá embaixo com dentes de ferro. Eu me busco no … Continue reading O Exílio Delicado

Keep me somewhere, in the folds of your heart, where I can reside as a cherished memory, a whisper of love that lingers through time. Fold me enough time to fit inside your shirt pocket, close to your beating chest, and carry me with you wherever you go. Keep me in the lead of your pencil, let my essence flow through every stroke, infusing the words you write with the depth of our connection. Keep me potted by the window, a living reminder of our bond, and water me every day, nurturing our love as you nurture the growing leaves. … Continue reading Close to you …

When the stars murmur their secrets and the moon shines its soft light on the world, you’ll discover that the emptiness inside can’t be filled by the mere presence of others. Their warmth may bless your bed, their hands may entwine with yours, yet the pain of loneliness remains, unaffected by physical touch. An abandoned house remains forsaken, even if it’s bustling with crowds, for the tenant’s absence echoes through its empty corridors. Sometimes, just sometimes, the only savior is the one who resides within. It’s a solitary journey, one that demands you save yourself. There will be days when … Continue reading In the silence of the night

A História sussurra, em tom solene: “cuidado, as guerras por território são as mais perigosas”. E então, curva-se para revelar um segredo ancestral: teu corpo também é geografia. Ombro que carrega montanhas sem tremer, ventre que oscila entre o murmúrio e o inchaço de mirtilos sob o luar, quadris que desenham mapas de oceanos intrépidos, coxas que entram em fúria e canção, trovões que embalam o mundo. Mas há mãos que insistem em conquistar, em golpear “terras prometidas” até que a pele vire pó, até que o sagrado se perca em cicatrizes. A Biologia intervém, urgente: “chega”. Inspira, pois não … Continue reading O Mapa que Habito

Thoughtful mini-steps: (The stage is dimly lit. A single chair sits center stage, but the speaker remains standing, pacing a small, invisible circle.) “They tell you that time is a river, but they’re wrong. A river has a direction. A river eventually meets the sea. No, time is a room with no corners. You wander around, bumping into the ghosts of your own decisions, wondering which version of you is the one currently speaking. (Stopping abruptly, looking at their hands) I woke up this morning and my hands felt like strangers. Whose skin is this? It carries the scars of … Continue reading Monologue: Temporary Arrivals 

It is a delicate, almost predatory game we play with the soul. To allow the sadness to sit, to let it find the soft velvet of the armchair and sink its heavy, shapeless hips into the cushions, is to invite a permanent ghost into the parlor. No. You must refuse it the luxury of rest. Do not let the sadness get comfortable; do not let it unbutton its coat or find the slippers under the bed. You must keep it on its feet, pacing the narrow corridor of the breath. It must stay busy, a frantic servant to its own … Continue reading The Refusal of the Chair

“You may shoot me with your words,You may cut me with your eyes,You may kill me with your hatefulness,But still, like air, I’ll rise.”— Still I Rise, Maya Angelou Continue reading Maya Angelou

Às vezes, o que eu chamo de simplicidade é, na verdade, um luxo de alma. Não o vazio que o mundo entende, esse despojamento árido, mas uma nudez que transborda. Eu quero a liberdade de ser inútil. Sim, a santidade de não servir para nada, a não ser para o milagre de estar viva. Sentar-me à janela enquanto chove. A chuva não pede licença; ela segreda coisas à terra, e eu, em minha mudez, escuto. Perder-me em livros que não me interrogam. Quero palavras que sejam apenas isso: luz bailando na água, ou o ritmo cego do meu próprio sangue. … Continue reading O Estado de Ser: Uma Simplificação