What if all my code lines
Those guiding my breakfast and my lust,
Turn out to be just a dumb shot
Of my own arbitrairities?

I would never be able to tell
If I'm right or
If I just think I'm right.

Paradoxically I only know I'm right
Whenever right I am.
It's not about being sure.
It's about the power and ability
To let yourself be sure

If we fear the forest man
For we fear the forest in us
And we give so we can
Take it back,
Why change it?

We might fear for we take it back
And we give for we fear inner forests?

Adaptation is all we need.

I could be afraid
To enter houses of unknown people,
To speak foreign languages within natives,
To sell my own thoughts to insurance
(And live afraid as a consequence),
But I won't, as far as I'm concerned.

I want more than light, I want matter,
I want more than hope, I want happening,
I want more than space, I want hardness,
I want more than voice, I want touch.

Everything requires me, myself, my mind,
To be within, inside, adjacent,
To be where I can be found,
To give the keys to the catacombs
I insistently try to hide.

If you travel to the world of nothing
You will find amazing findings:
The world is flat, but three dimensional;
People are well intended, but petty;
Animals are amoral, but judgmental;
Feelings are just feelings, but also thoughts.

In the world of nothing
Matters don't matter,
Ambiguity is certain, but unsure.
There's a weight in choosing
That cannot be felt in any absence.

But nothing could never happen
Unless everything is imagined.
The world floats in a space
Sustained by anything we can think of.

Nothing can be nothing,
Nevertheless, they are.

There's something when we isolate
That enlarges us, that completes us
Without the need of others.

There's something inside us
Claiming to be left to the moths,
To lose our forms and our substance
Into the nothingness of air, distance and trail.

There's something shouting
"Not me" whenever possible
Just to pass, to live in passenger seat,
To go and to come without bothering.

There's an urge to be just a self,
Nothing more, maybe to untouch
The universe, time and space wisely,
To be a bubble of own rules.

It's all illusions.
There is no world inside.
There's just us. Everything else's outside.

Half ways are not halfs,
They're two thirds or more,
The midpoint does not account
For the prior doubts,
The self empowerment,
The fights against our louder inner judging voices.
They're midpoints,
But most of the world
Is hidden from space,
Things are in all 37 dimensions.

Half ways is just a reminder
That though most of the work is done,
It's the last half that lead to an end.

Procrastination,
Powerless,
Tiredness,
Persistence,
Accomplishmen­t,
Temporary death.