Time

 

Time

Time asked time how much time it has. And time replied: enough to transform everything.
But the truth is that each person lives time in a unique way.
For some, it flies.
For others, it drags.
Sometimes, it stops — as if surrendering to a moment worth more than a thousand hours.
A kiss can last a second and still feel infinite.

Time is a silent journey.
When we are immersed in something true, the world slows down, and minutes become eternities.

I miss you.
Without you, I seem lost — like a stranded boat in dry rivers, without direction, without life.

When you are near, everything changes.
You light me up.
You inspire me.
Time ceases to be a straight line and becomes a space where everything is possible.

I seek something greater: a shared rhythm, a meeting of souls that recognize each other in the midst of chaos.
Where we lose ourselves and find each other again in the same gesture, the same glance.

I touched the void, and there I understood: time is not only what passes — it is also what remains.
It rules everything.
It shapes what we are, what we feel, what we remember.

Without time, there is no story.
There is no us.

Divine Breath

 

Divine Breath

Delicately, thread by thread, the web is woven — with the patience of one who knows time and the art of seduction.
Each strand is a whisper, each knot a promise.
Motionless, the hunter observes the world with eyes of silence, while desire ripens in the half‑light.

And then, in the instant when the essence of a thousand candles ignites in the air, the embrace becomes fatal — not of death, but of eternity.
Two hearts beat in unison, and time, conquered, bows.
In the touch of lips, the infinite reveals itself in a single second.

The prey, ensnared by desire, does not resist — she surrenders to herself, divine, as if she had dreamed of this moment since the beginning of time.
Submerged, spellbound, oblivious to the world, both lose and find themselves in the same gesture.

But even the predator, master of hunger and shadow, can be overcome by enchantment.
There is a subtle twist — prey or hunter, who leads? Who yields?
Nature, wise and cunning, keeps its secrets in silence.

The urge to satisfy oneself is an ancestral, untamable force that pulses in every being.
To subdue or be subdued — this is the oldest dance in the world.
An art that transcends time, where essence becomes divine breath, and the inner light consumes thought.

It is a journey where the world ceases, and minutes become eternities.
In that same fatal embrace, the hearts return to their shared rhythm.
In the touch of lips, the infinite repeats itself and there, entwined by desire, submerged and enchanted, both surrender to the condition that binds them: prey and predator, hand in hand, in the mystery of surrender.

To Be Is a Verb

 

To Be Is a Verb

Truth and lies dance together like shadows at dusk — inseparable, indistinguishable, shaped by the light of whoever observes them. From some angles, the lie dresses itself as truth; from others, truth disguises itself as illusion. The weight of each one only reveals itself when we dare to tell them apart.
And what if everything we lived was true only while we believed it? And what if now, as we look back, it all dissolves like mist under the sun? Memory is a cracked mirror — it reflects, but it distorts.

Planting a courgette seed expecting to harvest a pumpkin is like waiting for life to give us answers to the wrong questions. A watermelon will not be born — neither miracle nor metaphor will save incoherence.

Emotions, ideas, sensations — they are siamese sisters that govern our being. They ask for no permission; they simply take the throne. They feed on our days like hungry wolves and, even so, make us feel alive.

Intuition? Perhaps it is destiny’s whisper, perhaps only an echo of fear. It separates heart from reason like a river splitting a mountain — beautiful, yet treacherous, ready to collapse into an avalanche.

Curiosity is a torch: it can illuminate or ignite. But without it, there would be no epics, no discoveries, no transcendence.

Keeping stories in chests for millennia is like preserving embers beneath ashes — they warm the soul, but they also burn with longing.

Living without chaos would be like drinking water without thirst — bland, mechanical, almost cruel. Entropy is the seasoning of existence.

Let us not deny what we are. To be is a verb that demands action: to live, to live, to live. Even if the world splits into parallels or crosses into diagonals, we are the intersection. Essence cannot be denied — it pulses, insists, resists.

Acid Rain

 

Acid Rain

The acid rain of farewell runs down my face as if each drop were a tear forged from crystal blades.
I wasn’t ready for your departure — the ground slipped from beneath my feet like leaves swept away by an autumn gale.
You left too soon, like a shooting star that fades before granting its wish.
Without you, my source of inspiration has dried up like an enchanted river forgotten by time.

I carry in my chest a garden of enigmas, where wildflowers grow among the thorns of uncertainty.
The mountains where I hide my heart — deep within the earth — tremble with the echo of your absence.
Lone wolf, you rule my soul with your howls dancing in the wind, yet I never see you.

You are a mirage in the forest of my thoughts, a shadow among the pines, a jasmine scent that vanishes at a touch.
In the solitude of my abysses, perhaps my screams are only echoes of your silences.
I travel through fields of mist, among lilies and beeches, searching for a whisper of yours — like a sweet, feverish hallucination.

A touch from you would be like dawn’s dew on burning skin: magical, chilling, liberating.
I want to lose myself in the delirium of your presence, where madness dresses itself in love and everything makes sense.

Without promises, without contracts, come back.
Pull me out of this pit of dry roots and take me to the heavens, where clouds are made of cotton and hope.
Savor my essence, which waits for you among fog, moss-covered paths, and waterfalls that sing your name.
You will find me pure, like a flower never picked, ready to feed on your touch for a thousand springs.

The tears that burn will transform into soft breeze, the swords into magnolia petals, the wounds into illusions that dance at the sound of your return.
Come back. Give me the balance to free the ink running through my veins, to write with my soul what only you make me feel.

You are more than emotion — you are a volcano in eruption, incandescent lava that does not scream to the wind, but etches your mark into the earth.
I am yours, inspiration, for as long as you remain the spell that enchants me.

Rain never forgets the storm, but it is in the calm that the miracle blooms.
It is in that sacred instant that I want to live, until my final breath.

Do not run, inspiration.
In you I planted my heart — like a seed awaiting your light.

The Light That Survives the Maze

 

 

                                                    The Light That Survives the Maze

Sometimes the mind becomes an endless maze.
We walk through dark corridors, surrounded by walls that rise without mercy, blocking our way forward.
We turn back, insist, try again—and more walls appear—a stubborn, exhausting cycle that wears down even hope.

When we long for something good to happen and everything around us insists on becoming an obstacle, the night grows heavy, steals our breath, empties our thoughts, saddens the heart.

Today I feel like this: tired, discouraged, lost in silence.
Without strength to face people, noises, problems.

But despite everything, there is one certainty that remains intact, a truth untouched by walls or labyrinths: within the soul, beautiful and powerful—there is light.
And that light, at least that, continues to illuminate the path, even when I cannot see it.

A Luz Que Sobrevive ao Labirinto

 

 

A Luz Que Sobrevive ao Labirinto 

Às vezes, o pensamento torna-se um labirinto interminável. Caminhamos por corredores sombrios, cercados por muralhas que se erguem sem piedade, impedindo-nos de avançar. Voltamos atrás, insistimos, e surgem mais muralhas — um ciclo teimoso, exausto, que desgasta até a esperança. Quando desejamos que algo bom aconteça e tudo à nossa volta insiste em ser obstáculo, a noite torna-se pesada, rouba-nos o fôlego, esvazia-nos as ideias, entristece o peito. Hoje sinto-me assim: cansada, desanimada, perdida no silêncio. Sem forças para enfrentar pessoas, ruídos, problemas. Mas, apesar de tudo, há uma certeza que permanece intacta, uma verdade que nem muralhas nem labirintos conseguem tocar: na alma, bela e poderosa— e isso, pelo menos isso, continua a iluminar o caminho, mesmo quando eu não o vejo.

Insane Longing

 

Insane Longing

Feeling longing for what was never ours is like crying over a dream that never dared to be born.
It is nostalgia for a time that never ran through the clock, an echo of footsteps that never touched the ground of reality.
It is a feeling made of mist and silence, a tapestry embroidered with threads of desire and absence.

This longing is a broken mirror where a thousand versions of a past that never existed are reflected —
a past invented by a soul hungry for meaning, for presence, for a touch that never came.
It is hope dressed in mourning, the heart writing letters to a destiny that never replied.

There is a sweet madness in this insane longing —the kind one feels for lives not lived, for loves that existed only in the space between two sighs.
It is a flame that burns without ever being lit, a fire that consumes without leaving ashes.

The mind, accomplice of the heart, recreates moments with the precision of an intoxicated poetess, and each invented memory becomes more real than any truth.

It is the desperate desire for the return of something that never left, the yearning for an embrace that never happened, for eyes that never met.

This longing weighs on the body — it becomes insomnia, anxiety, a fatigue that has no explanation.
It is time pausing to listen to the lament of a nameless absence.

One does not live to be noticed, but so that one’s absence may echo like thunder in the silence of others.

Distance, that sculptor of feelings, does to emotions what the wind does to fire: it extinguishes the small ones and inflames the great ones. And so we go on, sailing without a compass through seas of obscurity,
until the leaves of the soul fall, exhausted, in the autumn of hope.

Insane longing, I have nothing to offer you but the weariness of existing in vain, of having touched only the shadow of what could have been.
My fingers intertwined with the mist,and in the emptiness I found the essence of abandonment.

I shall remain alone, like sailboats anchored in forgotten harbors, waiting for winds that will never come.
For there are longings that have no name —they simply live within us, like storms that never cease.

Spell in Living Stone

 

Spell in Living Stone

There are days when the soul feels like a field devastated after a storm —sadness blows like a cold wind that cuts through everything without asking permission.
It is a pain that does not scream, yet consumes in silence, like a fire burning inside without showing a flame.

I feel like a withered flower in the shade, without sun, without water, without hands to touch it with tenderness.
The body feels heavy like ancient stone, forgotten in a garden where no one passes anymore.
The smile I offer is a cracked mirror — it reflects, but does not reveal.
It is an empty gesture, a perfume made of lies.

I live in a theatre of illusions, where the mask has already fused to my face.
I am invisible, as if my existence were made of mist.
Human warmth has long abandoned me — no caress, no gaze that truly sees me.

I am exhausted. So tired.
In this life, we are lost travelers, not masters of the path.
And sometimes I wonder: would the end be a kind of liberation?
But even in the unknown, perhaps live the shadows that chase us, demons that feed on what remains of our hope.

Life is a candle lit in the wind — its wax melting like tears,
and I protect the flame with trembling hands, fearing that a cruel breath will extinguish it before its time.
When I open my soul, it is treated as exaggeration, as drama.
They say it’s just a phase, but they do not see the abyss living inside me.

Perhaps a kiss — not of pity, but of truth — could break this spell.
A pure gesture that would return me to flesh, to blood, to the warmth of being human.
Just for an instant. To keep a memory strong enough to sustain me for a thousand years.

I want a shoulder where I can rest my weariness,
a simple gesture that says: “I’m here.”
An ear that listens without judgment.
I want to dare break this curse.
I want to feel again. To be.

Being human also means having cloudy days.
I want to look at myself with more gentleness, to accept that I don’t need to be strong all the time.
To allow myself to feel without fearing that I’ll seem fragile.
Maybe I am not made of spells, but of deep feelings that silence me when I most want to speak.

I want only this: to be human. For a moment.
And keep that memory like a reliquary of light,
to hold on to life when everything feels unbearably dark.

Cry

 

                                                                             Cry

Cries of blood, born from the anger of not having lived what I dreamed of living.
I hold back the tears, trying to resist the weakness that consumes me.
They are silent screams that echo in the wind.

I want to be free, if only for a day.
To free myself from this dark cave that is my mind.
Just one day of freedom.

This absurd prison without walls was created by me.
No barriers, no chains — only inertia.
No reflection, no shine in my eyes, no hope.
I live like a ghost, in the shadows of the invisible.

To whom I whisper, nothing listens.
To whom I touch, nothing feels.
My soul keeps vigil over the desire to be human, just one more time.

To emerge from my own darkness and feel on my skin caresses, love — all the forgotten sensations, like an improvised composition.
Yes, a rhapsody would make sense in this terrifying and disconcerting symbiosis.

A fusion of two idle bodies, an explosion of incandescent and fervent lava.

I am gentle and kind, not a threat.
Why won’t you let me come near?
To create unknown memories?
To be human, just once?

Ships sink without ever feeling the wind in their sails, knowing only the salt that wounds the bow in the open sea.
My story ends sadly — the one that never began.

Delusions of a captive being, gentle and kind, who only longs to be loved.
To be human for one day.
And then return to the shadows of the invisible, living like a ghost… with memories for a thousand years.

Wings of Glass

 

                               Wings of Glass

I wander through the forest with wings of glass, fragile as promises cast to the wind.
The breeze, soft as an ancient whisper, brushes my face and intoxicates me with the alchemy of wild fragrances.
All around me is a sea of vibrant green, a symphony of untouched beauty — yet silence reigns, a silence heavy as an omen.

Nature, so alive, seems to hold its breath.
Something is not right.

I am called by a soundless voice, a spell that binds itself to my soul.
I stumble through the undergrowth and, in an instant, rise into the sky with my glass wings, shimmering like dreams yet to be fulfilled.

But over a clearing, an invisible strike — like a flaming arrow — tears through the air and hits me.
The wings shatter into a thousand laments, and I fall, free‑falling into a pit where darkness is queen.

At the bottom, the ground is cold, without light.
The air is foul, stagnant, as if death itself whispered at my ear.
Nausea rises; my body weakens; the light above feels like a distant mirage.

A thousand thoughts assault me — I want to run, flee, escape this haunted, lifeless place.
Illusion, treacherous, makes me believe I am moving.
But I am still — a prisoner of the earth.
Exhausted, I scream in silence: I want to live.
My numbed body no longer serves me.
I must abandon it if I wish to survive.

I close my eyes, and my soul, light as mist, ascends.
I break through the heavens and leave behind the abyss of pain.
The moon, witness to my rebirth, watches in silence.
My crystal wings, once broken, now burn with crimson fire — I rise from the shadows at an enigmatic twilight.

I flee the clearing as one flees a nightmare.

What comes next?
Perhaps dawn will bring answers, perhaps it will unravel the mystery now dwelling within me.

I am made of endless stories, of emotions dancing with disappointments like ghosts in a forgotten castle.
But there is nothing to fear.
Courage is needed to keep walking, to wait — with a vigilant heart — for whatever destiny holds.
We are travelers, not masters of the path.

I entered the forest.
I left the forest.

Where do I go now?
It is a riddle yet unsolved.

But everything — everything — will reveal itself
at dawn.

llusory Cure

 

                               llusory Cure

Dark night, silence echoing through the void, lost within myself.

My star, solitary in the sky, you shimmer with a fractured light — so faint it barely reaches me, a veil of longing that does not warm, only wraps around me.
There is a beautiful ache in the stillness that settles in the twilight of my thoughts.
There you are, free and translucent, escaping the abysses that hold me captive.

Your presence lifts the shadows from my wounded soul and soothes, with untamed gentleness, a yearning for peace that never fully arrives.
Your light, brief and quiet, heals storms, softens inner battles, yet cannot conquer the war that lives within me.

Dark night, silence that screams inside me — my star, you still shine, but your broken light is only the reflection of a cure that does not remain.

Solitude

 

                                   

                                      Solitude

I breathe as someone trying not to drown in a sea of people — human waves passing by me, yet none ever stop.

I am an island in the middle of the crowd, surrounded by voices that never reach me, by gazes that cut through me like cold blades, judging without knowing the weight I carry in my chest.
The pain that lives inside me is a scream trapped in my throat, a thunder that never breaks the sky.

And in this silence that wraps around me like a heavy cloak, I wish only that someone — just one — would notice that I still exist, that I am still here.
What use are words, if the world has forgotten how to listen?

Everything feels out of place, like a shattered mirror that no longer reflects who I am.
I try to understand this world, but it speaks a language my heart no longer recognizes.
The gazes keep judging, blind to the truth that bleeds within.

And I, prisoner of silence, walk on invisible — wishing only that someone would see, truly see, that I am still here.

He Unnameable

 

                           He Unnameable 

They say we harvest what we sow…

Yet I scattered seeds of love and reaped shadows.
I planted joy and gathered silence.
I planted presence and received only the echo of absence.
Yes — we always harvest something,
but destiny reveals its fruits in its own unfathomable time.

Madness, ancient phantom of the unseen realms,
I flee from you as one flees from a fire
that burns not the flesh, but the essence.

Allow me to dwell within my own inner cosmos,
where I still command the constellations,
where storms obey my breath,
where I remain sovereign over the chaos that crowns me.

With trembling hands and a spirit laid bare,
this is no plea —
this is a summoning cry,
resonating through the chambers of my chest
where confusion has woven its roots
like spectral vines hungry for light.

You — absence with form, silence with gravity,
riddle without cipher —
entered me without words,
yet leaving echoes heavy as stone.
Reality and illusion swirl before me
like twin flames performing a sacred dance,
and I, wandering between worlds,
seek to discern what is dream
and what is decree.

Despair cloaks me in a mantle of thorns,
each thought a battlefield,
each memory a fallen temple.
And still,
I walk.

Across mountains carved from sorrow
and valleys sculpted from uncertainty — I walk.
For within me dwells a warrior made of starlight,
a fire that no shadow can extinguish.

I reach out —
but you are forged of stone and mist,
a labyrinth without center,
a manuscript written in vanished ink.
Yet I search for you in the margins of the impossible,
believing that my eyes may still reflect
a future where you take shape —
whole, present, luminous.

I sowed hope and harvested quiet.
I sowed tenderness and received thorns.
Still, I sow —
for hearts woven of persistence
continue even when the cosmos whispers to stop.

Madness,
that ancient temptress of forgetting,
calls to me with the promise of oblivion.
But I retreat inward,
into the sanctum where my will still reigns,
where I am empress of my own abyss.

And if one day
someone reads this message — even with the eyes of the soul —they will know:

I fought.
I trusted.
I loved.
And even on the brink of collapse,
I chose to walk toward the dawn,
carrying the ache of a thousand absences
and the fire of a thousand rebirths.

Dementia

 

                                                    Dementia 

Dementia, silent tyrant, invades me like a dense mist that seeps into the very bones of the soul.
It steals my reasoning with invisible fingers, and memory fades like ink dissolving in the rain of time.
Emotions, once mine, now belong to you — shadowed vines winding around my chest, dimming clarity with the sweet poison of illusion.

Reality and fantasy blend like molten metal in the forge of an uncertain destiny.

Despair, that cruel arcane force, lays itself over me like a mantle of thorns, wounding the essence that still dares to fight.
I am a warrior of flesh and spirit, and even before the phantom of madness, I seek the shores of certainty — a place where the sun still remembers my name.

Resilience: the word that pulses in my blood.
The key that opens portals to realms where peace reigns, where the horizons are made of light and silence, and the spirit dances freely among forgotten constellations.

The wind, accomplice to my sorrow, brushes my face like jasmine petals scattered at twilight.
I walk across mountains of stone and shadow, yet I do not break —
for my core is made of fire and truth.
With an uncovered heart, I confront this incoherence that torments me, allowing truth to embrace me like butterflies resting upon the soul and lifting it toward the heavens.

The abstract runs through my veins like molten fire — anger, longing, remembrance.
I reach for you, yet you remain a sealed enigma, pragmatic, distant, owner of nothing, colored by none.

Still, I believe this:
my eyes will mirror the future, even if the present lies as an inert body on the verge of implosion.

Illusion shatters.
Reality, bare and unyielding, rises before me like an oracle of uncertainties.
Yet I trust the divine.
I believe that triumph belongs to the bold,
while the faint‑hearted merely dream within the shadows of fear.