I have secrets. I have a collection of sins.
Half of me is generosity, the other half is dark, enclosed, veiled.
I don’t know if it’s a half or only layers: that, that the surface shows, is not what the surface covers - or it’s the thread of an ancient velum. A fabric trimmed by the ancestors, interlacing good and bad, turning into fine silk what once was rustic jute.

I’d be a psychopath if I were religious.
I’d be a witch if I were not lazy.
I’d be a scientist in order to keep some sanity.
I have answers but I’m bored by the questions.

Inside of me dark beings dance along with creatures full of light.
Around me...angels live. Angels and the balance I provide to others.
The balance I invent to myself.
The balance I project on this big screen called life.

I know things - and I was born knowing them - which I cannot tell, unless in sparse chapters, scattered sentences or sporadic thoughts.
Trust me: it’s easier to be a sinner when you know hell’s exact address. It’s easier to forgive when you know precisely where heaven lives.
I know who I am... I’m not special. I’m not rare. I’m ancient.
Philosophy tires me. Theology bores me. Theories about the new age exhaust me. They all sound like old stories...old news.
For I’ve heard the thoughts of the universal mind before the world even existed.
Sometimes the universe is a museum of misspelled unoriginal ideas...
All I can say is I wish I could know the euphoria of discovering.
originally written in Portuguese.
probably a bad translation.



i once considered calling your name
but i'm pretty sure i'd meet the echo of your emptiness
that's why I stop by the door everyday
i cover my mouth with one hand and save the other for wiping the inevitable tears

i ponder the reasons why i don't step inside
i give you space...i give you time
i know you can hear my thoughts from there
i know you see me closing my eyes to daydream


i once considered calling your name
but i'm afraid i'd meet the echo of my loneliness.