I have counted stars as if they were coins for a debt I never owed. I have romanced Error, feeling its cold breath against my neck, and I have been married, which is its own kind of star-counting. I have been drowned in too much wine and parched by too little, always thirsty for a liquid that does not exist. Once, I fell into another country. It was ugly. A physical rejection of the earth. I have been a merchant of the impossible: I sold ice to Eskimos and, eventually, I sold my soul. But then, in a fit of … Continue reading The Imprecise Inventory of a Soul

São dias de um silêncio denso, quase mineral. Eu, que não possuo o hábito de crer e a quem a oração não visita os lábios, sinto o peso da existência sem o apoio de um cajado invisível. Resta-me apenas a Pietas. Não como conceito, mas como essa compaixão crua, esse fio de seda que nos amarra uns aos outros no escuro. Às vezes me pergunto, e o pensar é um risco, se não seria mais repousante entregar-me a uma fé já pronta. Uma dessas crenças que se veste como uma roupa feita sob medida, costurada por séculos de tradição, onde … Continue reading O Santuário de Carne

Respiro dias sem luz. Não é a escuridão do medo, mas essa ausência de contorno que me invade, onde o sol esqueceu de existir. São dias sem tempo, entende? O relógio na parede não marca mais a vida; ele apenas mastiga o silêncio. Não há memória. O que passou tornou-se um rastro de pó, e o que virá é um susto que ainda não aconteceu. Morbidos e crudeli rifugi. Refúgios que me acolhem com a maciez de uma seda velha, mas que me ferem com a precisão de uma faca de cozinha. É um abrigo que me sufoca enquanto me … Continue reading O Vazio que Pulsa

I was overdosing on your sorrow. Not a death, really, but a terrifying expansion of life where there was no room left for me. I became a container for your shadows, drunk on the ache that shaped your soul until my own edges began to blur, dissolving into the salt of your unshed tears. Every sigh you exhaled was a bitter echo, a hollow sound that didn’t just ring, it pulled. It pulled me deeper into the cold, into that silent, underwater place where the heart forgets how to beat for itself. I wanted more. I wanted to be high … Continue reading The Visceral Weight of You

Era uma vez uma mulher que, após o fim, não se tornou nada, mas sim um resto. Um resto que respira. Ela morreu, é verdade, mas esqueceu-se de parar de existir. O amor, ao partir, não levou apenas a mala; levou a moldura do mundo, deixando-a entregue à nudez de uma existência sem paredes. Sobrou-lhe, então, a convivência,  essa rotina viscosa, com os próprios abandonos. Depois do amor, ela desaprendeu a pertencer. Não havia mais o porto do mar nem o chão da terra. O céu? O céu era apenas um teto que pesava, uma superfície azul onde a dor … Continue reading O que restou…

They will approach you with their measuring tapes and their small, tidy expectations. They will say your heart is a room that cannot be lived in, that it is too messy, a cacophony of too loud or a silence too quiet. They will weigh it and find it too big for their narrow shelves, or too small for their hunger, or simply, always, too much. But you? You will look at them with the eyes of someone who has seen the sun and survived it. You were not built for the economy of “enough.” You were raised to exhale, to … Continue reading The Anatomy of an Exhalation

It is a state of being… or perhaps a lack of it. I look at the wall and the wall looks back, and suddenly I am no longer myself; I am the wall, the lime, the microscopic crack. Everything is so large that it hurts to be small. I feel with a violence that is almost silent. People walk past me with their dry, organized hearts, while I am a liquid overflowing. Is it a sickness? To see a speck of dust dancing in a sunbeam and feel the entire weight of the universe’s birth? It is a fatigue that … Continue reading The Insufferable Radiance

There are many poems which touch us through the years. Poetry has the ability to say what we feel. It’s rhythm sometimes comforts us as a child can be comforted in a rocking chair. It lays bare the soul and pretense and pride are burned away by the fires of yesterday. It comforts us when we feel sadness and despair. It inspires us when hope is almost lost.The night has a thousand eyes,And the day but one;Yet the light of the bright world diesWith the dying sun.The mind has a thousand eyesAnd the heart but one;Yet the light of a … Continue reading The Touch of Poetry

J’ai vu tant de mers, tant de rivages, tant de ciel et de paysages. Chaque horizon s’est offert à moi, dévoilant des secrets infinis et des beautés insoupçonnées. J’ai vu tant d’escales et tant de ports, où chaque arrêt était une nouvelle promesse, une nouvelle aventure à embrasser. J’ai pu me chauffer au creux des îles, où le soleil caressait ma peau et où la brise marine chantait des mélodies douces. Je me suis caché au fond des villes, trouvant refuge dans les rues animées et les coins tranquilles, là où la vie pulsait avec une vigueur inégalée. J’ai marché … Continue reading Tant de Mers

The sacred is not confined to hallowed halls or holy texts; it is the quietude in a hammock’s sway on a lazy Sunday, the anticipation in an airport’s embrace. It is the stillness between life’s cacophony, a late-night tea, a duvet’s cozy retreat. Sacredness is the aroma of a meal, the earth’s perfume after rain, the silence of a fulfilled desire. It is the window that frames the dying day, the kiss that speaks without words, the surrender of entwined souls. In a room of cherished memories, the sacred finds its home, a gentle reprieve from the mundane. It coexists … Continue reading Sacred