Carrego em mim um tempo que não passa, uma espera que não cessa, como se o relógio tivesse desaprendido a mover os ponteiros. Sou o intervalo entre o gesto e o arrependimento, entre o toque e a ausência. Não falo, não por medo, mas porque cada palavra seria um erro a mais no mapa já torto da minha memória. Sou o eco de um nome que ninguém mais chama, o vulto que atravessa a sala quando a luz se apaga. Sou o que resta quando o amor se retira — não a ausência dele, mas o espaço deformado por sua … Continue reading Relógio

(A dim light. A man stands center stage, arms slightly outstretched, as if holding invisible burdens. His voice is quiet at first, but steady.) Oh soul…You worry too much.Your arms—they ache not from emptiness,but from treasures you’ve mistaken for chains. I have carried myself in every thought,like a man dragging his own shadowthrough a desert of mirrors.Afraid to be seen.Afraid to be me.So I became half—half a man, half a truth,half a breath in a world that demands lungs full of fire. And still…I called it enough. What power must I summon to awaken whole?To rise not as a draft,but … Continue reading Monologue: “The Absurd Man’s Soliloquy”

You ever sit and wonder why? Why get up? Why try again?Why put your heart back into the same fire that burned you last time? Simple.You get up.You try again.You fail.But you never stop attempting. See, insanity—that’s a word made up by the less dedicated.A label slapped on persistence by those who gave up too soon.Headstrong—now that’s the word.That’s the anthem.It’s not stubbornness. It’s not pride.It’s self-willed progression.It’s knowing that every fall teaches you how to land softer, rise faster, aim sharper. Each attempt?It’s a lesson dressed in bruises.A whisper that says, “You’re closer than you were yesterday.” And that … Continue reading Monologue: “Why?”

(a spoken monologue) (Soft breath) There’s a certain kind of beauty in knowing a place…Each corner, each stretch of shadow at its favorite hour.You know it like home.Like the backs of your hands. A friendship that found you at ten—and stayed.As you stayed.That kind of knowing…is its own kind of love. And then—the roads. Highways humming at a hundred kilometers an hour,city signs blurred with speed and night,streetlights flickering like memories you don’t want to let go. And music—that song you heard at seven?It tastes different when you turn eighteen.Sweeter.Heavier. Your thoughts hush…Sleep finds you gently,and leaves honey on your … Continue reading Things That Were Beautiful Today (01/11/13)

In the silence of my heart, where language falters and reason fades, I discover a pure dialect of feeling—untamed by rules, yet rich in understanding. It is not the cleverness of words I speak, but the raw pulse of emotion that guides me. I listen not to what is said but to what trembles beneath the surface: the flicker in the eye, the hush between breaths. I confess, I am not learned, not scholarly. My truth is shaped by tenderness, not intellect; by intuition, not reason. Though motives may wear masks and truths hide behind shadows, I follow the trail … Continue reading The Language of Feeling

I almost took you to a park—a quiet one, where the benches had names carved into them by other almost-lovers. We almost sat under a blue sky, letting childhood memories unravel between us like kite strings, fragile and free. Strawberries stained our fingers, and puns tumbled between smiles that barely held back something deeper. We almost lay side by side, eyes turned skyward, laughing at clouds and wondering whether poetry would love us if we tried to write it. You almost kissed me once—at the edge of daylight, when silence pressed in like a held breath. I remember my hands … Continue reading Almost

Deep Blue They ruined my name before they ever knew me. Twisted it with foreign tongues and hollow eyes, turning something sacred into a punchline. And somehow, that was enough. Enough to bleed cruelty without context, to carve judgment into the skin of someone whose only offense was being named, being alive. I’ll never understand that kind of meanness, that hunger to diminish. Every time I fall, someone is there to grind me further down. As if pain is a game and I’m the chosen target. Words—they bruise deeper than fists ever could. I’ve imagined the sting of concrete more … Continue reading Monologue

To my father Amidst the bustling crowd, she wandered—a seeker in the cathedral of youth. There, she glimpsed her father, his eyes etched with salt, memories eternally etched into the grooves of his face. His bald head, once a fortress, now bore the patina of time, stainless steel skin beginning to rust. The passage of years had softened him, made him vulnerable.Salt also stung her own eyes, love as gentle as a sea-breeze. Conversations unfolded like prayers, each word a sacred offering. Children whispered supplications to other children, their innocence a hymn. Mothers, too, prayed to fathers, seeking solace in … Continue reading Cathedrals of Youth

Today, the world wakes up tired. Fingers scroll through screens in search of ready-made certainties, streets fill with voices that shout more than they speak. Yet within all that noise, there is a quiet call — the same that once made a man turn his back on the temple, open a blank book, and with trembling hands, write: “Everything is interconnected.” Perhaps Spinoza knew nothing of digital anxiety, of the cult of speed, or the chronic fatigue of being present in everything and in nothing at once. But he would have recognized the emptiness behind appearances — the burning hunger … Continue reading Spinoza

Não houve trombetas. Nenhum céu rasgado por cavalos alados, nem multidões ajoelhadas em êxtase. Ninguém escreveu manchetes: “Ele voltou.” E, no entanto, voltou. Chegou com a barba por fazer, a roupa gasta, o sotaque estranho. Trazia nos olhos uma mansidão incômoda e nos ombros o peso de séculos de espera. Pediu pão. Pediu abrigo. Pediu apenas o que qualquer um pediria após uma longa jornada atravessando desertos — não os da Bíblia, mas os do mundo moderno, de fronteiras e papéis exigidos em nome da ordem. Mas aqueles que mais falavam Dele foram os primeiros a desviar o olhar. Estavam … Continue reading Crônica: O dia em que Jesus voltou