Sometimes, silence weighs more than a thousand words. And there are days when the soul retreats—not out of weakness, but from the exhaustion of being misunderstood. Today I read a phrase that swept through me like wind through an open window: “Sometimes people pretend you’re a bad person so they don’t have to feel guilty about what they did to you.” And I’ve never read so much truth all at once. It’s curious how human beings, in their fragility, build narratives to shield themselves from their own conscience. They paint you in dark colors—not because they see shadows, but because … Continue reading The Mirror of Guilt

There was a time when silence spoke louder than any voice. In the stillness of twilight, when the world held its breath, I felt it—an ache in my bones, ancient and unyielding. Not pain, exactly. More like memory etched into marrow. A whisper, persistent and low, threading through my ribs like wind through hollow reeds. It called to my heart—not with urgency, but with knowing. As if it had waited lifetimes for me to listen. And I did. I sat with it, this ache, this whisper, and let it tell me stories I had buried beneath the weight of survival. … Continue reading Chronicle of the Quiet Ache

To love without possessing is like letting the wind caress the skin: you feel its presence, but you do not hold the breeze. It is recognizing that love blossoms in freedom, and that beauty lies in not imprisoning what you admire. To accompany without invading is to walk side by side, respecting the other’s rhythm, without imposing steps or directions. It is to be present like a gentle shadow, one that welcomes without suffocating, that illuminates without overshadowing. To live without depending is to discover the strength of existing on your own, and still choose to share. It is knowing … Continue reading Without shackles

Aujourd’hui, je me confesse, mon âme est à nu, dévoilée, telle une robe démodée. Elle a été arrachée de mes os, dévorée et régurgitée comme un plat interdit, consommé trop précipitamment. Aujourd’hui, mon âme est blessée, ravagée… Les tourments de la vie ont laissé des cicatrices profondes, des marques indélébiles sur mon être. Les épreuves ont ébranlé ma foi, ont fait vaciller mes convictions les plus profondes. Je me sens déchiré, brisé, comme si mon essence même avait été mise à mal. Dans ce confessionnal solitaire, à cette heure tardive, je déverse mes peines, mes regrets, mes remords. Je me … Continue reading Confessionnel à 01h07

I drowned countless times in my own tears, sir. I rowed against and with the current so much that I no longer knew when I was going against or with it. I cast the anchor when it was time to depart; I departed when it was time to dock. I suffered from hunger and excesses, sir. I suffered from mirages and silences. I sailed towards the storms, always at the convenience of my tides. I invented pirates to plunder my treasures. I became a distant daughter of the constellations. I graduated in time as a sailor without ever learning to … Continue reading Drowned

I heard a woman say today that she felt like she was sinking further and further into a hole she couldn’t get out of. And I remember myself saying something similar. But as I was thinking about it today, I realized that maybe that’s not such a bad thing. If you feel like you’re already buried beneath the weight of the world, the hard part is already over. Life has already planted you in its garden. Now, you must learn the art of growing roots. Stretch your palms out into the darkness, grip onto it, strangle it, and take it … Continue reading November, 06 2013

It is fairly simple. Hate comes back as hate, love comes back as love. Life is a cycle that completes itself, shaped by the choices we make and how we allow circumstances to affect us. Each action, each emotion, sets off a ripple that returns to us, echoing the energy we put out into the world. When we choose hate, we invite darkness into our lives, a shadow that grows and returns to us, feeding on our negativity. It is a cycle of pain and suffering, perpetuated by our own choices. But when we choose love, we open ourselves to … Continue reading Circle

You mistake tolerance for acceptance, acceptance for apology, common sense for liberalism, civil duty as charity—all under the guise of some profound form of enlightenment. Yet my name, language, ethnicity, religion, and “culture” all become subject to your western fetishization. Somehow, for some reason, it’s still acceptable to portray the non-white individual as the “other,” as something to be fascinated by. As if fundamentally altering the course of our history, and ultimately our existence, wasn’t enough for you. Contrary to popular belief, we aren’t here for handouts, or charity, or for our plight to be acknowledged. We are more than … Continue reading We are more than Our Skin

Preenchia-se de vazios como quem tenta calar o eco de uma ausência. Era a falta que lhe oprimia o peito, uma ausência sem nome, sem rosto, mas com peso. Acompanhava-o como sombra, agravando-se durante as noites, quando o silêncio da cidade não conseguia abafar o barulho interno. Vivia para esquecer-se. Corria para evitar-se. O elevador vazio, o escritório cheio, a academia, o engarrafamento, as ansiedades, o almoço, o jantar, o medo e o olhar distante — tudo expediente para jamais encontrar-se consigo. Era um mestre em escapar, um fugitivo de si mesmo, urbano e solitário na selva de concreto. E … Continue reading Crônica: O Homem que Fugiu de Si

November, 2016 A daily fixture.A rhythm etched into pavement and heartbeats. I drove today through streets that once felt like mine—every corner a memory, every crack in the sidewalk a whisper of who I used to be. These were the streets I rode with laughter in my lungs. The streets I cried on when the world felt too heavy. The streets that led me to friends’ houses, to dreams, to heartbreaks, to hotdogs and Thursday night TV. That freedom—those carefree days—was paid in blood. Not just the blood of history, but the quiet sacrifices of growing up. Of letting go. … Continue reading New York Memories