Escutei o amor, mas ele não veio como música. Veio como esse zumbido nos ouvidos, um tinido que não cessa, que não se explica e que, por não ter fim, acaba por se tornar o meu único silêncio. Ele me mantém acordada na vigília dos bichos. É um murmúrio opaco, uma nota persistente que apaga o resto do mundo. Fico na dúvida: será que invento esse tom ou é ele que me inventa? É baixo o suficiente para eu duvidar de mim, mas alto o bastante para fazer minhas têmporas latejarem com uma agitação que dói na carne. O amor … Continue reading O Som do Amor

Perdi-me dentro de casa, entre o cheiro do café e o silêncio das poltronas que me olham. Perco-me quando viajo, sob céus estranhos que não me reconhecem. Eu estou, e talvez sempre estive, perdida. Antigamente, eu olhava para esse abismo e sentia o coração encolher. Parecia-me dilacerante, uma tristeza opaca, algo que se carrega como um erro. Mas hoje, enquanto olho para o nada e o nada me devolve o olhar, sinto um susto de clareza. E se não for um erro? A alma tem dessas fomes. O que eu chamava de desamparo talvez seja apenas a Verdade nua: uma … Continue reading A Epifania no Cotidiano

Where is the love? It is a question that does not sit; it vibrates, a silent insect against a glass pane. I look at the world and see this ignorance, thick, sticky, appallingly high, a fog that one wants to scream into until the throat is raw. It is infuriating, yes. It is a knot in the chest that refuses to be undone. But then, the scorn arrives. We dress our anger in sharp, polished words, believing they are blades that will cut through the dark. How foolish we are. Scorn is not a scalpel; it is oxygen. It breathes … Continue reading The Architecture of Silence

We move through the days as if we are gathering ourselves, piece by piece, into a pile that will eventually reach the ceiling. We have been taught, no, we have been dyed, in this peculiar ink of accumulation. It is a capitalist thirst that we mistake for a soul. We collect, we consume, and we store, believing that a full drawer is a full heart. But look closely at the walls. We cannot see the bars of the cage because we have painted them the same color as our skin, the same color as our dreams. It is an unsustainable … Continue reading Capitalist Trap

Some fathers unleash their rage upon walls, their fists colliding with silence, while children watch, their voices swallowed by fear. The walls remain unbroken, but the children’s spirits fracture, creating a silent symphony of despair. Some mothers search for solace in the depths of long-necked bottles, their roles as nurturers drowned in a haze of liquid forgetfulness. There are parents who embody a different kind of chaos—a hushed, insidious chaos that leaves invisible scars. These fathers wield their eyes as weapons, slicing through their children’s souls with the precision of a blade. They stand with twisted smiles, their words a … Continue reading Echoes Against Unbroken Walls

Some fathers unleash their rage upon walls, their fists colliding with silence, while children watch, their voices swallowed by fear. The walls remain unbroken, but the children’s spirits fracture, creating a silent symphony of despair. Some mothers search for solace in the depths of long-necked bottles, their roles as nurturers drowned in a haze of liquid forgetfulness. There are parents who embody a different kind of chaos—a hushed, insidious chaos that leaves invisible scars. These fathers wield their eyes as weapons, slicing through their children’s souls with the precision of a blade. They stand with twisted smiles, their words a … Continue reading Echoes Against Unbroken Walls

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The skin is a silence that screams. I look at myself and I do not see a “thing” to be judged; I see the pulse of a mystery that simply is. You dress your thoughts in heavy wool, but my body? My body is an unpunctuated sentence. The Weight of a Gaze To say my nakedness is a sin is to speak a language I have forgotten. You call it “obscene” or “wrong,” but those are just words, dry, brittle husks that have nothing to do with the damp, living reality of my cells. You are trapped in the geometry … Continue reading Body as Fact, Not Sin

I slide my fingers along the bone of your spine—that rigid, hidden ladder of the self. It is a cold arithmetic of touch. With a light, almost vulgar breath, I murmur how hollow your friends are, those paper dolls flickering in the periphery of a drawing room. But then, the silence arrives. I stop. You are not they. You are a dense, terrifyingly quiet forest. Your beauty is a thing that overflows its own vessel; it does not stop at your skin but spills into the air like a scent one cannot name. It is a facade, yes, but a … Continue reading The Touch

To remember is not an act of the will; it is a sudden hemorrhage of the soul. I do not “recall” my childhood, I undergo it. It is a symphony of things that have no names, a raw vibration in the air. When I think of the soccer games with my brothers, I am not thinking of a ball or a field. I am thinking of the instant, that wild, fleeting spark of being alive before the world told us what we were supposed to be. We lived in the luxury of nothingness. My toys were not objects bought in … Continue reading The Memory of Time II