Who else has seen this trail,
Stepped in these grains,
Heard the same local noises?

There is no need for checkpoints,
Yet, they are extremely valued.
A possible third of a path,
Or almost entirely the path,
Who's to say?

Here I am today,
And nothing else is sure.
The end of a journey
Is not its destiny.
The end is always unexpected,
By definition,
Different from a destination.

Here I am
And it is the time
To choose where to go
Although where to reach
Is completely beyond my desires.

A silent approach,
Yet painful,
Makes gravity a little stronger,
Acting over thoughts
Draining energy
Through the cracks and pores
Of a body shouting
Untranslatable screams.

The challenge of finding a self center
Lead me into my extremities:
Left to right,
Up to bottom,
All the wingspan of my own being.

As I went left
I eventually caught myself
In the right extreme
With the same perplexity
Of Cook and Magellan.

Whenever an extreme was reached
A gravity, or magnetic force
Would push me
Into a lower place,
Almost indistinguishable,
Somewhat gray,
Somewhat colorful,
But always comfortable.

Every extreme
Are as close to each other
As they are distant to the center.

I am afraid
Of the stones I step,
Of the passing cars,
Of the sounds that fill the calm.

I am afraid
Of things that exist and are,
Of what I can eventually do,
Of the structures that sustain me,
Of the wind that disguises the heat.

This fear I carry
Is the fear of what I am,
Of the real, the idea,
Of what I think
Others think of me,
Of what could never be done
And I could only do.

I have this fear
Of the ridicule in myself,
That amuses me
To say embarrassing truths.

If there is a thing
Such as fear,
It is only a self fear,
The interrupted projection
Of a tenuous success,
Of the polite strength
Of words always half the way,
Seeking an order of a world
That no longer belongs to me.

Everything I am
And I would never allow me to be.
To fear is to be displaced of oneself.

Grasp the air
With long nails,
Beat rhythmically into the woods,
Finger after finger,
To count time.

Crawl or fall the abyss,
Feel the bleeding of exhaustion
But continue, for the alternative
Is to surrender.

Nails makes us stronger,
Frighten others,
Keep us scaling.

Grab all you can
For the uncertain future.
Don't worry about the load,
About the order,
About the destiny.
It's all about
The dirt carried under your nails.

In each of my stories
The world was saved.
Saved by the fiction,
Saved by its magnificent characters,
Unstoppable, heroic, brave.

And all the world's illness
Was reduced to ancient history,
A bad memory floating,
A stain to conflict with a calm future.

But fiction
Is just an impossible reality,
Implausible connections leading
To a deceiving plot.

It is my will
To be the improbable hero
Materialized into words
That shall fail to produce images.

Fiction is an external change
To my internal demands,
Restrained by the boundaries of a page.

I saw him today,
All the way from Korea,
Gray hair, kind aspect,
Whose appearance would miss
The precision in his hands.

Once in a while
His foot would hit the floor
So loud the piano got smaller.
But he could not help it
(It was clear in his movements).

Rhythm took over,
He got possessed:
It was not him anymore.
The space between the keys would bend
So he would reach anywhere he needed.
A precise clock would tick perfectly, inaudible.
Air would cease to resist the speed of his movements.
Notes and tunes would now be an integer part of him,
Physiology would only happen to keep music alive,
He would be able to predict the future
As long as the song goes on.

At the end, tired (the piano),
A gentle gesture towards our culture
To make me feel once again:
Greatness and kindness are much better together.