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Mirror of Creation
I am the canvas that bleeds color before the brush arrives, the silence that holds its breath before the first note sounds… You are the ocean receiving rivers—every gesture I make flows into the vastness of your understanding, changes you in ways I cannot measure… She stands at the intersection of courage and terror, her…
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無常の流れ Mujō no Nagare (Impermanence Flow)
Morning mist rises from concrete— the city breathes through steel lungs, exhales yesterday’s promises into today’s uncertainty. A businessman’s reflection fractures in puddles that mirror neon signs, each ripple erasing the face he wore at twenty, replacing it with lines drawn by decades of subway commutes and convenience store dinners. Because things are the way…
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Under the Knife
Have you ever lain there in the pre-dawn darkness, hospital gown twisted around your shoulders like surrender, counting the ceiling tiles because counting keeps the mind from wandering toward the sharp edges of what comes next? This journey explores the profound vulnerability and unexpected strength found in the surgical experience—from the sterile waiting rooms to…
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What Are Your Daily Habits?
The question arrives like morning light through venetian blinds—slicing the darkness into manageable strips of inquiry. What are your daily habits? As if habit were a simple thing, as if the repetition of breathing could be catalogued like grocery lists or tax returns. I wake each day to the sound of my own heart insisting…
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What Terrible Time to the Young Preferring Thanatos than Eros
In the cathedral of screens, where light bleeds blue into the tender corners of seventeen-year-old eyes, they gather like moths to the flame of their own undoing, these children who have learned the weight of emptiness before they’ve known the gravity of love. What terrible time is this— when the pulse beneath their wrists speaks…
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Foz Isn’t for Amateurs: After a wise friend
At the edge of three nations where rivers marry in thunderous ceremony, where maps dissolve into mist and spray, there exists a place that swallows the unprepared whole—not with malice but with the indifferent appetite of pure extremity. Foz. The name itself a Portuguese whisper that means mouth, and here the earth opens its vast…
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Dolce Far Niente
Sunday dissolves into its own reflection—a mirror made of honey and forgotten appointments, where minutes collect like dust motes in the cathedral of afternoon light. The clock’s face melts sideways, Salvador Dalí’s prophecy fulfilled in the space between your breath and the next breath, between intention and the sweet absence of needing to intend anything…
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What Remains
We are the cracks in sidewalks, / hairline fractures spreading through concrete certainty, / where water finds its way / despite the city’s careful planning. / In the spaces nobody wanted, / we learned to bloom sideways, / roots threading through forgotten soil / beneath the weight of others’ expectations.
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The Weight of Choices #poetry
I am the architect of half my ruins, and you know this feeling too—the way your hands shake when you hold the blueprint of your own destruction… But the other half carries the weight of inherited ghosts, the echo of choices we were too young to understand, too small to influence, too unborn to prevent.
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The Eternal Outfit
If I were condemned to singular cloth, sentenced to the same weave day after day, until the threads memorized my skin and my skin learned the language of cotton—I would choose denim. Not the pristine, factory-fresh blue that screams newness from store shelves, but the kind that whispers stories, that carries the archaeology of ten…
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