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

That morning was unlike any other. As dawn broke, it revealed a world of wonder. The sky was painted with hope, and a sea of faces told countless stories. Amidst them stood a stone statue, its majesty reaching for the heavens. A man stood with one hand raised to the sky and the other grounding him to the earth. He was a bridge between worlds. Before him lay a reflecting pool, mirroring the soul’s depths. In its surface, I saw myself, and I saw you. Just that morning, the world showed its complexity and beauty, singing the song of existence. … Continue reading That Morning

Olho para o Brasil e não vejo números. Vejo um corpo que se contorce. Não é a falta de pão que nos rói; é uma fome de alma, uma coisa vasta e silenciana que nos habita como um bicho. Vivemos de morrer. É uma pulsão, entende? Um desejo de precipício. Dizem que precisamos de moral, mas a moral é uma roupa apertada demais para quem nasceu no cabaré. O Brasil é esse salão de luzes vermelhas onde todos entram, onde o gozo é a única moeda que não desvaloriza. Eu me pergunto, entre um café e um silêncio: será que … Continue reading O Brasil, Esse Escuro que Lateja

Light does not merely fall; it strikes. It refracted and infused with life, cascading through the prism of our being, painting intricate colors on the canvas of our sleeve-worn hearts. But what is a heart if not a wild, pulsing thing trapped in the ribcage? Each hue is a story, yes, but also a demand. Each shade a memory etched, no, scarred, into the tapestry of our souls. Nothing is immune. We are porous. The universe does not just caress; it invades. It whispers a tale that resonates within us, a language spoken before words were invented, back when we … Continue reading Everything That Touches Us

The nights were shrouded in mystery, a cloak of darkness enveloping my thoughts and emotions. I found myself standing on the edge of solitude, unsure of what lay beyond. With each passing hour, I felt the weight of my memories pressing down upon me, a heavy burden that I could not shake. In the quiet stillness of the night, I found myself stripped bare, my vulnerabilities exposed to the world. I was forced to confront the ghosts of my past, to relive moments that had long been buried deep within my soul. And yet, as I stood there, vulnerable, and … Continue reading Nights

Vivemos em uma época estranha, onde o maior luxo não é o que você ostenta no pulso, mas o que você sente quando fecha os olhos à noite. A verdadeira ostentação não é sobre ter muito; é sobre o que você não permite que te tirem. O Luxo da Calma Nada supera a elegância de dormir 8 horas seguidas. É o descanso de quem não deve explicações ao travesseiro e a paz de estar sem dívidas, sabendo que o seu suor pertence a você, e não a um boleto bancário. Estar no “azul” é o novo status que ninguém vê, … Continue reading A Nova Alta Sociedade

It is not a stain, this needing. It is the salt. To hunger for the touch of another is not a frailty of the spirit, it is the very pulse of the beast within us, the one that breathes and does not know why. You crave a kindness in the morning? That is not the whim of a child; it is the soul’s primary cry, the raw, unwashed demand of the flesh for its own reflection. Do not be deceived: seeking a smile does not mean your world is gray. It means you have tasted the sun and refuse to … Continue reading The Hunger of the Living

In life, each of us holds a unique instrument – our heart, our soul, our very essence. It is our duty, our calling, to compose new music with which to live. To let our hearts sing, to let our souls dance to the rhythm of our own creation. For those who choose silence, who stand on the sidelines of life, know that your heart will ache for the melodies it craves. The world will pass by, carrying with it the songs of joy and sorrow, of love and loss. Do not let the music slip through your fingers, do not … Continue reading Music