It is bold to fly,
To distance from feet on the ground,
Of the roots we try to create,
Of the soil we recognize,
Of the short (beautiful) horizon.

We need a lot to fly,
We need instruments,
We need pilots,
We need machines.

But we know it is beautiful,
We want to see new perspectives,
We want to go to other lands,
Other languages,
We'll see many other rivers
In an expanded horizon.

But finally we need to land.
To fly is easy; to land, not.
We count on a whole team to do so.
It's the way it happens that changes everything:
A gentle kiss on the ground
Or a disastrous impact on the ocean.
The same thousandths of seconds
But with very different futures.

And we are so used
To being landed
That we don't know how to touch the ground ourselves,
There's always a pilot,
A crew,
We forget to know how to recognize the terrain,
To wear a parachute,
To chose when to jump.

It's always risky,
But not to take it
Is to be, everytime,
Where everyone else is.

Aterrisage is terrifying.

In this story
Nothing is about life and death:
Everything is about life and life,
The life that has been seen,
That has been wanted,
That was never imagined,
And that was never possible.

Death is a solved problem:
We die.
Even suicide is to think about life.

To live is to decide.
Always.

Maybe the future
Is our maximum possibility
To build the bridges
Between what has been
And what insists to be.

It is where there is permission,
The chance in raw state,
The only place where ambiguities
Reside peacefully.

In the future I dissolve
The cuts from today
And if, from what has not yet been,
I think of what is now,
I make things differently from what I would
And life is no longer the same.

If the becoming
Is so substrate,
All that not yet exists,
But somehow arranges in-between my ideas,
Create parallel futures
Of such unreal things,
They mirror the world such as it is.

To realize what does not exist
Brings life to emptiness.
There is no "not be" -
It s extremelly unstable -
For thinking it is creating it.

The becoming is microexplosions
of the instability of the "not be"
That soon morphs into the most probable
And everything is just exactly as it could be.

Change precedes the existence.

"Where" is any junction
Of two spaces,
Two parallels in the common infinite,
Finally touching,
The realization that all extremes meet themselves
Like the skin-envelopment of a body:
Everything closes in themsleves
Inside something bigger.
There is nothing analytical in it,
But two curious eyes
Dissolving what t sees
To avoid the certainties
Of this hard, impassable world.

All movement is a rearrange,
A fugue or search for balance,
But never indifferent.
There are potentials everywhere
And there is just where we get the discomfort,
That thing that puts us in movement,
That air mass that occupies
What just a moment before was my body.

All that transforms
Leaves behind
Traces of the irreversible,
The dust that no longer will be soil,
The cracks that no longer will be building,
The explosion that no longer will be bomb.

All encloses in the extremes.
The coldest cold, absolute,
Lean lightly absolute hotness,
And the dichotomy disapears,
Everything ends up in a circle
And what once took far
Can only lead to the starting point.

The farther we can go
Is the exact place we are.

Beneath the skin
Lies a new layer of skin,
Hiding a third level of skin,
That conceals the ugliness
Of functioning organs.

The air is the extension of my lungs,
The grass, the extension of my feet.
This skin, in all these layers
Are made actually to cover
My own body to see the world outside.

Everything I dare to say "mine"
Are those things that lie
Beneath the skin.

There is many we do
To prive ourselves
From move freely
Within structures.

We commit to truisms
We say thoughts
Born in others' minds,
We take the easy ways
Only to be away
Of the responsibility
Of being free.

It's not that we don't want to be free.
We just don't dare to.

A mattress to the floor
Bent, thin,
Something to soften
Its rough fabric
Is enough to hold
My every regret.

The sleep is heavy,
The mind is light,
Sometimes even
With reasons not to be.

There is something
Like a survivor instinct
That makes me forget
Damage, bruises,
There is a certain dementia
To keep things going on.

The mattress
Is now
About to merge
To the floor.