nothing interesting in the movement of hands,
only in what made them tremble, dance.
or the feet,
the only interesting thing in them,
was what picked their interest.
I am in love.
the sun on my right
the moon on my left
buzzing in my ears and buildings behind my back;
I am in love.
I witness myself dissolve
with my every movement towards the halting of my future movements;
nah, not even close.
the coffee in my hand is bigger than the other side
their whole world could fit into my hand
but they exist!
fragile– parallel worlds;
just patience and eyes
and they become.
and they appear.
and if you wait just enough,
into dust they return.
as black stones do
in the beaches where everyone bears my skin.
I love you,
for you are me.
I play with movement;
fingers, centimeters away from my mouth
corn, away from the glass
houses, bricks, red roofs white walls
There is so much more hiding behind what I can see
and much more behind it.
I want to take it all in.
I want to become it.
from down here,
people seem more clean.
I thought I was Vincent;
I look up,
I am Van Gogh’s ear.
everything just seems to repeat itself.
(same pattern, different actors)
it comes back.
I don’t breathe in smoke anymore,
in drugs to calm my hectic nerves
nor in pointlessness,
in plain cravings or primitive needs,
not even in words,
weak expressions of a boredom I can’t fathom…
and one day I create a movie of my own.
where nothing will happen and everything will.
the epitome of boredom it will be.
the cure for insomnia.
no drugs, no pills,
monotony is the best antidote to the deprivation of sleep.
(There was this one song I wanted to play for eternity,
fingers skip broken strings,
so why don’t I?