The road is long and it is dusty, and we have a far way to go. We are a people who love to wage war. It does not matter that we have no rifles; we arm ourselves with nothing but opinions. We feel we are entitled to them. It is a heavy entitlement, and we seldom sacrifice it for the sake of peace. We wield these opinions like daggers. We move in close and we cut little slivers of truth from one another. We keep cutting until the floor is wet and we are all of us bleeding out in … Continue reading The Long Way to Go

It is a hunger, perhaps, an unstoppable, vertical will to unfasten the world. I find myself wanting to open every door, not to enter, but to let the outside in. I would turn on all the lights until the shadows have nowhere left to hide, and then, with a finality that feels like birth, I would retire the keys. Why lock what has finally become infinite? I wish to dedicate each fragment of time to the creation of waves—great, rhythmic swells of perplexity. Not to confuse, but to drown the certainties that keep us heavy. To alleviate the weight of … Continue reading A Hunger for Open Doors

Lorsque le printemps se mouille par l’odeur de ta présence, ce n’est pas seulement une saison qui change; c’est le monde entier qui, dans un spasme de lumière, renaît avec toi. Je ne comprends pas le printemps, je le suis. Les bourgeons se dressent fièrement, de cette fierté sauvage et muette, pour saluer leur muse. Ils ne regardent pas, ils sont le regard. Et la brise, cette chose impalpable, semble murmurer ton nom, non pas comme un mot, mais como un souffle qui me traverse les os. La terre est encore humide, lourde des dernières neiges qui n’en finissent pas … Continue reading Le Verdissement de l’Être

The air between us is no longer air; it is a thick, pulsating waiting. You touch me, and the world—that heavy, external thing—simply ceases to exist. There is only the Skin’s Conversation, a silent symphony played on the nerves, unfolding in whispers that the ears cannot hear but the soul drinks greedily. It is a tactile poetry that transcends the poverty of language. After all, what is a word? A mere shell. But this? This is the meat of the fruit. Every caress is a sentence, a question asked in the dark; every pressure is a punctuation, a comma where … Continue reading A Grammar of Touch

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