It was you who taught us that the best way to pray was to make something beautiful. But beauty, you see, is a dangerous, breathless thing. It is not a decoration; it is an interrogation. Today, when we pray, we do not kneel in the traditional sense. Instead, we sit down before the heavy, silent weight of the world and arrange whatever happens to be in front of us—a broken glass, a spilled shadow, a sudden memory—into patterns, forms, and feelings. We search for the structure of what cannot be seen. We draw in the dust, knowing the wind will … Continue reading The Whispering

To exist is to be completely, terrifyingly small. I look at the train tracks. They do not care that I am looking. Under the heavy, vertical weight of the midday sun, they stretch out—two parallel lines of molten gold cutting through the dust, leading toward an horizon that is always moving, always out of reach. Is it leading to an unknown destination? Or is it a journey home? Perhaps home is not a place at all, but the realization that we are always arriving and always leaving. And what am I? A self that is fluid, spilling over its own … Continue reading Ephemeral Echoes

Amour, je suis venu secourir ta graine qui craint les hivers, qui redoute les lendemains—née des yeux, non par des chemins imprévus qui pourraient te perdre, mais par l’échec des erreurs passées, de ne pas savoir dire adieu. Lorsque nous réalisons que les clés de notre prison sont toujours dans nos poches, cette découverte peut nous mener à de véritables nouveaux départs. Ne nourris pas la peur de répéter tes actes poussiéreux. Tu apprendras que tu peux recommencer ou renaître sans bouger. La vérité est une terre sans chemin en chacun de nous, où la liberté est l’espace qui nous … Continue reading Ta Graine

It is not that the word is missing. It is that the universe itself was born with a fundamental crack, and we, the fragments, try to use syntax to stitch together what was never meant to be seamless. Look at us. We accumulate pages, we swallow melodies, we repeat verses like an old woman counting rosary beads in the dark—a mantra against the anguish. We demand that language perform a miracle it never signed up for. We want it to be a spine. We want it to be blood. But a word is such a fragile thing. It is a … Continue reading The Inevitable River

An apology as hope. Hope, an excuse to postpone. Tomorrow, a promise—the fullest version of ourselves waiting. Tomorrow, I act, realize, become. Tomorrow, I will be healthier, more tolerant, more authentic. Tomorrow, I will talk to the boss, call my parents. Tomorrow will be less distant, less crowded—no anxiety, no fear, no sadness. Tomorrow, that strange heaviness in my chest will ease. Tomorrow, I will leap—insist, persist, heal, apologize. Tomorrow will be fairer, less naive, more serene, less lonely. Tomorrow, I will put an end to my weary ellipses. Tomorrow, the indentation in my story will prove my courage was … Continue reading Tomorrow as an excuse

Avant que tu ne me fasses t’aimer, sache simplement que je t’aimerai comme les étoiles aiment la nuit— avec désir, sans fin, fidèlement. J’aurai besoin de toi comme les mouettes ont besoin de planer au-dessus des vagues, te regretterai comme l’été regrette la pluie. Même lorsque tu seras proche et que je verrai la chaleur monter lentement sur tes épaules, que je toucherai la tension de ta peau, que je compterai les cils de tes yeux, dans mon cœur subsistera un besoin rugissant plus fort que les eaux tonitruantes des chutes du Niagara. Car si tu me fais t’aimer, je … Continue reading T’aimer

I am a miscegenation of absences and sudden presence. If you look at me, do not look for a mirror; I am not white, I am not Caucasian. I am the silence of the Karipuna blood that runs, thick and secret, from the Rio Jamary, from the drylands of Guaporé where a people was almost entirely erased into the air. What is left of them lives in the rhythm of my pulse. The rest? The rest is a map that does not help to clarify anything, because to clarify is to limit, and I am a spill. How can I … Continue reading A Brazilian Identity in Words

My faith is my compass, guiding me through the labyrinth of life. It is not a faith bound by dogmas or doctrines, but one that finds its essence in the written word. I immerse myself in the ocean of poetry, letting the rhythmic waves cleanse my soul of its many sorrows. Each verse, each line, each word, is a droplet that washes away the dust of despair that clings to my spirit. The poems I read are not mere collections of words, but lighthouses that illuminate the dark corners of my mind, banishing the shadows of fear that lurk within. … Continue reading The Poetry Is My Faith, Love My Guide

Há coisas às quais voltamos, porque não há outro jeito senão o de colidir de frente com o próprio enigma. São pessoas que insistimos em amar — não por escolha, mas por uma espécie de fatalidade mansa. Lugares que guardam um segredo, que cantam e suspiram quando pisamos neles, como se a terra mesma estivesse viva. Há palavras que não secam; ficam ali, granulosas e ásperas, movendo-se dentro da boca, incomodando a língua com o seu peso de existência. E as canções? Certas músicas nos arrancam violentamente da indiferença, essa anestesia dos dias, e nos obrigam a sentir. Sentir dói, … Continue reading Volta

What men mean when they talk about their “crazy” ex-girlfriends, ex-wife are often that they were someone who cried a lot, or texted too often, or had an eating disorder, or wanted too much/too little sex, or generally felt anything beyond the realm of emotionally undemanding agreement. That does not make these women crazy. That makes those women human beings, who have flaws, and emotional weak spots. However, deciding that any behavior that they do not like must be insane — well, that does make a man a jerk. And when men do this on a regular basis, remember that, … Continue reading Crazy