It is not in the grand architecture of a cathedral that a man reveals himself, but in the way he peels an orange. There is a quiet, rhythmic gravity in the movement of the hand; the way the zest curls under the knife is the same way his soul bends toward a difficult love or a heavy task. We often tell ourselves that we are saving our greatness for the “event,” for the one day when the spotlight finally finds us. We treat the mundane like a dusty hallway we must sprint through to reach the ballroom. But the hallway … Continue reading The Geometry of the Minute

May no one stitch me into their white, pious intentions. May no one pluck at my sleeve for directions I have long since burned. I am allergic to the ‘Come here!’—that small, beckoning hook that seeks to pull me into the parlor of the predictable. My life is no longer a quiet room; it is a storm that has finally broken its hinges. I am a wave, heavy and salt-crusted, rising far above the polite vibration of the atom. I am a fever of motion. I do not know the name of the shore I am hurtling toward, nor do … Continue reading The Uncharted Pulse

A gente se encontra como quem não quer nada, mas querendo tudo, naquele meio-tom entre o que se diz e o que se cala. Eu olho para você e penso que, se o acaso fosse um pouco mais generoso, eu me atreveria a alimentar os teus sonhos e deixar os teus medos passarem fome, como quem esquece de dar comida a um bicho que morde. Deixaria teus receios definharem em algum sótão da Rue de Seine, enquanto teus desejos engordariam de vida, de vinho e de jazz. Éramos como dois fósforos em uma caixa úmida, mas, se eu pudesse acender … Continue reading O Mapa de Vidro

You know, my dear, that “white blindness” or the “thick skin” we call selfishness isn’t just something found in old storybooks. It hides right here, inside each of us, waiting for a moment of distraction to take root. If we feed the darkness of the heart, our eyes grow tired and lose the habit of seeing anything beyond the fence of our own ego. In the rush of our daily chores, this quiet selfishness can wake up over the smallest thing, blurring our vision and shrinking our world. It grows strong on neglect—on the “good mornings” we don’t say and … Continue reading An Open-Hearted Soul

Olhei para a xícara de café e vi, no reflexo daquela água escura, o resto de mim que ainda não aconteceu. Havia um cansaço que não vinha dos músculos, mas de uma compreensão súbita, dessas que chegam sem pedir licença enquanto a gente descasca uma laranja. Quand nous comprenons la finitude de notre existence… A frase soou na minha cabeça com o peso de uma língua que não é minha, mas que o meu corpo entendeu como se fosse um soco. A finitude não é o fim; é o “durante” sabendo que vai acabar. E, nesse relance de lucidez, a … Continue reading O Instante-Já do Nada

After the silence has settled, there comes a time to move. Not with the frantic pace of the desperate, but slowly, tracing the path back toward everything that was once torn away from us. We often believe that when something is taken—our time, our peace, our wilder selves—it vanishes into the ether. We assume the void it leaves is empty. But the heart has a long memory. Deep within the quiet, underwater chambers of the soul, those stolen things still resonate. They exist as a low, persistent hum—a submerged longing for the freedom we used to breathe and the dreams … Continue reading The Submerged Echo

Hoje me deu um desassossego… Essa mania que a gente tem de querer empurrar o tempo com a barriga, só para chegar logo ao “amanhã”. Uma pressa de ser gente grande, de carregar chaves pesadas no bolso e rugas de importância na testa. Tolice.Lembro-me das pernas curtas querendo dar passos de gigante. A gente espichava o pescoço para ver o que havia na prateleira de cima, sonhando com o corpo de mulher, com os filmes de censura proibida, com essa tal “liberdade” que, vista de perto, tem cara de cansaço. Depois, o destino prega a peça: passamos o resto dos … Continue reading O Relógio Enguiçado

No, I do not want to talk about love. To speak of it is to commit a small murder of the self. I prefer the neutrality of the mattress, the vast, white desert of the sheets where I have finally learned the geometry of my own solitude. The middle of the bed is a kingdom; the emptiness on either side is not a lack, but a presence I have come to inhabit. I have no use for the “once upon a time.” Memories are predators. They have a substance—a thick, suffocating weight—that threatens to displace the very air I breathe. … Continue reading The Silence of the Ribs

What is this thing? This hunger that is also a glass shard in the throat? To love, to be loved—it is a neutral necessity, as vital as the breathing I do without noticing. It is a fragility so heavy it crushes the chest. In the silence of the room, between one blink and the next, I feel this longing weaving itself into my pulse. It is not a feeling; it is a force. It is the prehistoric vibration of being human. I am looking for the core. Beyond the pretense, beyond the mask of the face, there is a raw … Continue reading The Essence of Humanity