Endings are often mistaken for failures, as if something that couldn't last has somehow lost its worth. But the universe tells a different story, if we are willing to look closely enough.

A star doesn't simply disappear. It leaves for millions or billions of years, balancing an invisible tension between gravity, pulling everything inward, and nuclear fusion, pushing outward with immense energy. At its core, atoms fuse, releasing light and heat, holding the star in a delicate equilibrium. But nothing sustains forever. Eventually, the fuel begins to run out. Gravity, patient and relentless, starts to win.

And then, in its final act, the star does something extraordinary.

It collapses. And explodes.

A supernova isn't just an ending. It's one of the most luminous events in the universe, briefly outshining entire galaxies. In that violent, radiant death, heavier elements are forged: iron, gold, calcium... the very materials that make up planets, oceans, bones, and blood. What ends there doesn't vanish. It transforms. It becomes the possibility of something else.

There's a quiet lesson in this.

It feels like losing structure, like drifting into an uncertain dark where nothing is guaranteed. But what if that collapse isn't the end of meaning, but the beginning of transformation? What if, like stars, we're also made to break open, to release something brighter, something truer, something that couldn't exist if we remained as we were?

Not all endings are gentle. Some are abrupt, some are painful, some leave behind silence where there was once noise. But even then, there's a strange kind of beauty in the honesty of an ending that's finally allowed to be what it is.

Because to end is to complete a cycle.

To end is to say: this mattered, and now it has reached its form.

And maybe the real tragedy isn't that things end, but that we sometimes deny them the dignity of their ending, stretching them beyond their truth, holding them past their life, afraid that without them, we'll become less.

But the universe suggests otherwise.

Stars die, and in doing so, they create the very elements that make life possible.

Perhaps we're not diminished by our endings.

Perhaps we're , in some quiet and invisible way, expanded by them.

 I was told, more than once, to place my life in the hands of something greater. To surrender the weight of uncertainty to an invisible will, to trust that somewhere above the noise of existence, there's a mind orchestrating meaning. It was offered as confort, as structure, as an answer to the vastness that so often terrifies us.

But I've never been able to trully believe in a god.

Not because I refuse meaning, but because I refuse to outsource it.

I don't need a divine author to explain the way the world breathes. I see enough in what is real, in what is tangible, in what can be touched, tasted, questioned, and understood. I believe in the slow, relentless work of science, in the way it dares to say "we don't know" and then spends centuries trying to find out. I believe in nature, in its indifference and its beauty, in the quiet intelligence of systems that exist without intention and yet, sustain everything.

I believe in people. 

Not as perfect beings, not as saviors, but as forces capable of creating, destroying, rebuilding, and choosing again. I believe in the fragile, stubborn act of trying. In the hands that build cities, write stories, heal wounds, and reach for one another in the dark without the promise of being watched or rewarded.

There's something profoundly honest in that.

Because when there's no higher power to lean on, responsability becomes unavoidable. The world is not guided by a hidden plan that will correct our mistakes. There's no guarantee that justice will be served by something beyond us, no certainty that suffering has a purpose designed by a greater intelligence. What exists is what we do with what we are given.

And that isn't emptiness. That's power.

It means that change doesn't descend from the sky, it rises from action. It means that hope isn't a gift, but a decision. That believing something is possible isn't an act of faith in the divine, but an act of defiance against inertia. It's choosing to move, to create, to insist on meaning in a universe that doesn't hand it to us.

I don't need to believe that I'm a part of a divine plan to find purpose.

It's enough to know that I'm part of something vast and real, something governed by laws that don't bend to desire, but that can be understood, navigated, and, in small ways, transformed. It's enough to know that every step foward isn't guided by unseen hands, but taken by my own.

There's no comfort in illusion for me. Only in clarity.

In knowing that the world isn't waiting to be saved, but to be faced. That waht we build, what we break, what we choose, matters precisely because there's nothing beyond us that will fix it.

I don't believe in a god.

I believe in that is here.

In the ground beneath my feed, in the minds that question, in the hands that act, in the quiet, radical idea that we are enough to shape our own direction. Not perfectly, not completely, but undeniably.

And that, to me, is more than sacred. It's real.

 Entropy.

They call it a law of phisics, a quiet sentece written into the bones of the universe: everything tends toward disorder. Toward the unmade, the scattered, the unpredictable. Not because something went wrong, but because this is how everything works.

And still, we ache for symetry.

We crave stillness. We build routines like fragile architectures, hoping they will hold against the inevitable collapse. We want our lives to be clean lines, soft mornings, controlled outcomes. We want peace that doesn't tremble at the edges. We want a world that behaves.

But the universe does not behave.

It unfolds.

There are days when everything slips through your fingers: plans unravel, emotions surge, the ground beneth you shifts without warning. Days when chaos feels less like a concept and more like a language your life insists on speaking. And maybe, in some strange way, it sounds familiar. Not because it's easy, but because it's honest.

Because everything moves withing the same law. Stars collapse, storms rage upon entire cities, hearts break and restart over and over again.

Entropy isn't failure.

It's movement.

It's the breaking that allows something else to exist. The disarray that forces you to adapt, to rebuild, to become. It's the reason nothing stays frozen in a perfect lifeless state. Chaos isn't the opposite of growth, it's its the rawest form.

And maybe that's the quiet truth we resist the most:

the calm isn't the default setting of existence.

We're shaped in the tension, in the uncertainty, in the moments that demand more from us than we thought we could give. We expand not despite the chaos, but because of it. Each difficult day stretches something inside you: your patience, your resilience, your capacity to endure and still remain open to the world.

But acceptance isn't surrender.

To recognize chaos as part of life isn't to bow to it, not to become complacent whithin it. It's to understand the terrain you walk on. To stop expecting still waters in a universe made of storms and to learn, instead, how to navigate them.

You're not meant to be untouched by the disorder around you.

You're meant to move through it.

To find your own kind of balance, bot in the absence of chaos, but in your response to it. To build meaning not from perfection, but from persistence. To stand in the middle of everything that refuses to stay still and still choose direction.

Entropy doesn't mean nothing matters.

It means everything's in motion.

And maybe, just maybe, there's something profoundly human in that, in the fact that we keep seeking beauty, structure, and meaning in a universe that was never meant to be perfect.

We're not here to escape the chaos.

We're here to become something within it.

I got entropy tattoed on my skin as a reminder that disorder isn't the opposite of meaning, but part of how meaning is made. Entropy is not the end of things. It's the reason things change, the reason anything new can exist at all.

I carry this word with me because it tells the truth: that nothing I love, nothing I fear, nothing I am will remain exactly as it is. This word is a reminder that even in disorder, there is direction. Even in collapse, there's creation. And we are all alive inside of this chaotic, but beautiful, universe.

 They will always tell you about the fall.

They will lower their voices, as if speaking of something sacred and cautionary, and say his name like a warning: Icarus. They will speak of wax surrendering to the sun, of feathers loosening into nothing, of a boy who flew too close, too high, too foolishly. They will trace his descent with careful fingers, as though the tragedy is the point, as though gravity is the lesson.

But they're wrong.

They've always been wrong.

Because before the fall, there were wings.

Not metaphorical ones, not fragile dreams whispered into the dark, but wings built by human hands. Defiant, impossinle, audacious. Wings that did not belong to gods, yet dared to rival them. And there was a moment, brilliant, burning, infinite, where a boy stood at the edge of what was known, looked at the sky, and chose to believe it could hold him.

And it did.

For a breath, for a heartbeat, for a fleeting eternity, he flew.

Do you understand what that means?

The world had rules and he broke them. The sky was not meant for him, and still, it opened. The sun was not merciful, and still, he chased it. Not because he misunderstood the risk, but because he understood something far greater: that to touch the impossible, even once, is to rewrite the limits of what a life can be.

They will say he paid the price.

But what is the price of never trying?

What's the cost of staying grounded, of folding your dreams neatly into something safe and small and survivable? What is a life measured only by how carefully it avoided the fall?

Icarus didn't live carefully.

He lived expansively, recklessly, magnificently. He burned, not as a victim, but as proof. Proof that the sky can be reached. Proof that fear is not the boundary, only the illusion of one. Proof that there is something inside us that longs not just to exist, but to ascend.

And yes, he fell. 

But the fall wasn't the story. It was only the ending.

The story was the ascent.

The story was the moment the air caught beneath wings that shouldn't have worked, and did. The story was the sun reflected in wide, unafraid eyes. The story was choosing height over safety, wonder over obedience, fire over silence.

 The story was daring.

And if the flight was brief, it doesn't make it smaller. It makes it incandescent.

There are lives that stretch long and quiet, untouched by risk, untouced by brilliance. And then there are lives that burn, sharp, radiant, unforgettable. Lives that carve themselves into the sky even if only for a moment. Tell me, which one do you think the world remembers?

Which one do you think you would choose?

I carry Icarus with me, not as a warning, but as a vow. Inked into skin, etched into bone, a reminder that I wasn't made for half-mesures or hesitant dreams. That if I am to fall, let it be from a height I choose. If I am to burn, let it be in pursuit of something vast enough to justify the flame.

Because the truth is simple, and it's merciless, and it's beautiful:

He didn't fail.

He flew.

And even if the sky only held him for a moment

it was worth it.

 I was listening to When The Party Is Over by Billie Eilish and the line "I'll only hurt you if you let me" echoed really hard. It sounds almost gentle at first, like a warning whispered instead of shouted. But beneath it lives a darker truth: pain rarely breaks in through locked doors. Most of the time, we open them.

There are people we invite into the fragile architecture of our lives. We clear a space for them among the things we love. We move our memories aside so they can sit there. We hand them the fragile maps of our inner worlds, the places where the ground is soft, where the walls are thin, where everything echos.

And sometimes they walk through it like a storm.

They rearrange the furniture of our peace. They shatter quiet corners. They track mud across rooms we once kept clean. And when the damage finally becomes impossible to ignore, we stand there in the wreckage wondering what went wrong, as if chaos had forced its way inside.

But the cruelest part is not the destruction.

The cuelest part is the guilt.

The strange, heavy guilt of realizing we can't live inside the mess they created. As if leaving the ruins were betrayal. As if wanting silence again made us cold. As if protecting ourselves were a form of cruelty.

So we stay longer than we should.

We step carefully around broken glass that was never ours. We apologize for the storms someone else brought. We try to become smaller, quieter, easier to keep, believing that maybe if we bend enough, the damage will stop.

But it rarely does.

Because some people only know how to exist inside destruction.

And once you realize this, something shifts. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, almost sacred realization rising through the noise: the door was always yours.

The threshold.

The lock.

The permission.

Pain is powerful, but it's not omnipotent. It requires passage. It requires welcome. It requires the fragile moment where a heart decides to trust.

And suddenly that lyric stops sounding like a threat.

It becomes a revelation.

I'll only hurt you if you let me.

Not a promise of harm, but a reminder of sovereignty.

Because the same hands that once opened the door can close it. The same heart that once said come in, can finally say enough. And there is something fierce, something luminous, in the moment you realize that your life is not a battlefield others are entitled to.

It's a home.

And you are allowed to decide who enters, 

who stays,

and who must finally leave the light of your doorway behind.

 Sometimes, the red flags don't arrive quietly. They scream.

They flash in neon behind a smile that feels just a little too sharp, in words that bruise long after they are spoken, in silences that feel like punishment. You see them. Of course you see them. Your body knows before your mind is ready to admit it. Your chest tightens, your stomach knots, some small voices inside you whispers "this is not safe". 

But there are good things too.

A laugh that melts the room.

Moments of tenderness that feel almost holy.

A version of them that appears just often enough to make you believe the rest is temporary.

So you negociate with reality.

You start telling yourself stories:

Maybe they're just hurting.

Maybe love means patience.

Maybe if I stay long enough, love hard enough, forgive deeply enough, the future will be softer than the present.

And so you hold on to the good like a lifeline, even as the bad quietly erodes you.

Piece by piece.

First it's a boudary you bend, just this once.

Then, a silence you swallow.

Then, a part of your dignity you tuck away like something fragile that must not get in the way.

Before you notice, you're praying for hope with things that should have never been negociable: your self-respect, your limits, your sense of worth. You shrink yourself into a shape that can survive the storm of someone else's chaos.

And still you tell yourself you need them.

Need their voice.

Their presence.

Their love, even when that love feels like something sharp in your hands.

But one day, something shifts.

Maybe it's exhaustion.

Maybe it's clarity.

Maybe it's the quiet realization that the person you have been abandoning the most this whole time is yourself.

And suddenly, you see it.

You were never starving for them.

You were never starving for piece.

For kindness.

For the simple, radical act of being treated gently.

You thought they were the air you needed to breathe, but they were just the storm that made you forget you had lungs of your own.

In the end, the most terrifying and liberating truth waits for you there:

You are not incomplete without them.

You are not a half searching for a missing piece.

You are a whole person who forgot, for a moment, that the deepest love you will ever receive is the one you decide to give to yourself.

 We grow up believing that power belongs to the one who speaks last.

To the one who decides.

To the one who says yes or no.

To the one who stays or walks away.

We are taught that power sits in the hands of the chooser, never the chosen. In the voice that rejects, never in the silence that endures. In the door that closes, never in the one left standing outside of it.

But that is a fragile illusion.

Because the person who gives the last word is not necessarily the one who holds power. Often, they are only holding control. And control is loud, immediate, and visible. Power is quieter. Deeper. Harder to recognize.

Real power doesn't tremble when it's rejected. It doesn't collapse when it's misunderstood. It doesn't beg for validation from someone who can't see its worth.

Real power begins the moment you understand what you deserve.

Not what you can convince someone to give you.

Not what you can tolerate.

Not what you can survive.

What you deserve.

There is a radical strength in looking at rejection and saying "this doesn't define my value". There is a defiance in walking away not because you were dismissed, but because you refuse to accept less that what honors you.

The world will try to measure power by outcomes. Who won, who lost, who stayed, who left. But the deepest form of power has nothing to do with being right or wrong, accepted or denied. It has everithing to do with self-recognition.

When you know you deserve more, something shifts. You stop negotiating your dinity. You stop shrinking to fit into places that can't hold your magnitude. You stop apologizing for wanting depth, loyalty, respect, truth.

And that is terrifying to people who confuse power with dominance.

Because a person who knows their worth can't be manipulated by approval or fear. They can't be controlled by scarcity or guilt. They don't chase what diminishes them.

They choose themselves.

And choosing yourself, without anger, without vengeance, without the need to prove anything, that is a silent revolution.

It takes courage to say "even if I'm rejected, I remain valuable".

It takes courage to say "even if you think I'm too much, I'll not become less".

It takes courage to pursue more. More respect, more love, more alignment. Without apology.

The true power isn't in having the final word.

It's in knowing that your worth was never up for debate.

 Healing is not silence.

It's not exile.

It's not pretending the wound never existed.

For a long time, I believed that to heal I had to run, to burry the memories so deep that even I couldn't reach them. I thought distance was strength. I thought never speaking about it again meant I had won. I confused avoidance with recovery.

But silence is not peace. It's just fear wearing a calm face.

Real healing is something far mor brutal and far more honest.

It's being able to turn toward what happened instead of away from it. It's saying the words out loud without your voice trembling. It's telling the story without editing out the parts that made you feel small, terrified, abandoned, shattered. It's looking at the wreckage and no longer needing to lie about how much it hurt.

Healing is not erasing the past.

It's surviving your own memories.

There was a time when thinking about it felt like drowning. My chest would tighten, my breath would shorten, my body would react as if the danger were happening all over again. The pain was not a memory, it tas a living thing. It clawed at me. It swallowed me whole.

Now, when I look back, I still see it clearly. I still know exactly what it cost me. But it no longer owns my pulse. It no longer dictates my oxygen. I can speak about it without feeling that desperate, mortal panic rising in my throat.

That is healing.

Not forgetting.

Not forgiving prematurely.

Not minimizing what happened.

But remembering and remaining steady.

It's the quiet power of saying "yes, that broke me for a while", and feeling no shame in the admission. It's telling the truth without collapsing under its weight. It's touching the scar and realizing it's no longer an open wound.

The past doesn't disappear. It becomes integrated. It becomes part of your architecture instead of the storm that destroys it.

Healing is not about never mentioning it again.

It's about mentioning it and no longer bleeding when you do.

It's about standing in front of what once felt fatal and realizing: it no longer has the power to kill me.

And that steady breath, that grounded heartbeat is freedom.

- Midnight thoughts...

To write a good poem,

you must first survive a good story.

Not the kind that ends in applause,

but the kind that leaves splinters

under your skin.

You must walk through a night

that does not promise morning.

You must love something

that does not promise to stay.

You must hold a name in your mouth

like a prayer

and then learn how to swallow it

when no one answers.

A good story will break you properly.

It will teach you the architecture of ruin

how walls fall inward,

how silence can be louder than screaming,

how a heart can keep beating

even after it has been asked to stop.

Before the poem, there is the trembling.

Before the metaphor, 

there is the bruise.

Before the rhythm,

there is the irregular breathing

of someone trying not to fall apart

in a room that smells like goodbye.

You must survive the moment

when you realize

you are not the hero.

You are the witness.

You are the wound.

You are the quiet aftermath

where dust settles on broken glass.

And then, only then

when the fire has done its work

and left you ash but breathing,

when memory no longer roars

but hums like a distant train,

when pain becomes a language

instead of a scream

you sit down.

Your hands will still shake.

Good. Let them.

Because a good poem 

is not written with ink.

It is written with what remains

after the story tried to erase you

and failed.

To write a good poem,

you must first survive a good story

and carry its scars

like punctuation

across the white page.

    

 

Whatever You Will Go - The Calling

            Patti Smith once wondered what Sylvia Plath might have tought in those final moments, whether her mind, so fiercely alive on the page, drifted toward her children, toward Ted, toward the bright wreckage of her own becoming. It is impossible not to follow that question into the quiet room where morning had not yet fully broken.

            What does a poet think at the edge of her own unwritten line?

            Perhaps she did not think in sentences at all. Perhaps language, her faithful instrument, her blade and her balm, fell away, and what remained was something rawer. A sensation. A memory. A flicker of bees humming in the mind, those tireless architects of sweetness and sting. The bees of Ariel, swarming and sovereign. The bees she tended in Devon, as if tending some fractured republic within herself.

       Or perhaps she thought of her children sleeping in the next room. Frieda's breath, Nicholas's small hands curled like unopened petals. A mother's mind does not relinquish its orbit easily. Even in despair, love remains, a tether, a weight, a costellation. Did she picture their futures the way poets picture landscapes, luminous, distant, possible? Or did she feel, with unbearable clarity, the terrible paradox of loving fiercely while believing oneself unfit to remain?

            Sylvia Plath's life was always split between brilliance and fracture. She was both the girl who won prizes and the woman who pressed her pulse against the hard glass of expectation. She was the scholar of  Smith College, the wife in a cold London flat, the writer rising befor dawn to carve her voice into the dark. She knew the architecture of ambition. She also knew its collapse.

            There is a line in Lady Lazarus: "Dying / Is an art, like everything else." Readers have wrestled with it for decades, accusing, defending, mythologizing. But perhaps the line was never about spectacle. Perhaps it was about control. About shaping the narrative when everything else feels shapeless. The poem performs resurrection, yes, but performance is not peace. Art can transform suffering into beauty; it cannot aways dissolve the suffering itself.

            Did she think of Ted Hughes? Or the early days when language braided them together, when metaphors passed between their mouths like shared breath? Love, especially love between artists, is rarely gentle. It burns, consumes, demands witness. In the aftermath of betrayal, what lingers is not only anger but the ghost of who one was while loving. Did she mourn him, or the self she had been beside him?

            Or perhaps she did not think of the past at all. Perhaps she was suspended in a stark and wordless present. A winter morning. The kind of cold that stiffens resolve. The kind of silence that feels absolute. There is a moment in Virginia Woolf's diaries, another woman who walked toward the end, throgh the water, where clarity feels almost crystalline. Not joy, not relief, but a narrowing. A corridor of certainty.

            And yet, it is dangerous to romanticize corridors.

            We return to Sylvia Plath because her poems remain incandescent. Because Ariel did not fade with her. Because the voice that seemed to extinguish itself became, paradoxically, immortal. There is tragedy in that irony, that the world finally listened with full attention only after she was gone.

            But I wonder if, in those final minutes, she thought not of fame, nor of critics, nor even of the long arc of literature. Perhaps she thought of something small. The smell of bread. The scape of a pen across paper. The memory of the sea at Winthrop, glittering and indifferent. Perhaps she remembered her father, looming and lost, the figure who hounted so much of her work. Perhaps she whispered a line only she could hear.

            Or perhaps there were no grand thoughts at all, only exhaustion. The kind that sinks into the bones and refuses negotiation.

            We project onto her because we cannot bear the void of not knowing. Patti Smith asks the question not to solve it, but to sit beside it. To honor the human beneath the myth. To remember that before Sylvia Plath became a symbol, she was a woman in a room, carrying too much.

       The final thoughts of a poet may not be poetic. They may be fragmented, ordinary, painfully human. And maybe that is what unsettles us most, that even the most luminous minds are not spared from darkness.

            What  remains is the work. The fierce music of her lines. The way she wrote herself into fire and frost and refused to be small. Whatever passed through her mind in those last moments, the poems endure, alive, electric, uncontained.

            And perhaps that is the only answer we are allowed.

            

- Midnight thoughts...

 In English, we say I like to talk with you,

a simple truth, neatly folded, 

polite as a smile shared across a room.

But in love we murmur:

I wanna hear every little thing you say,

the half-formed thoughts,

the soft rambles,

the stories you think don't matter

because to me, they're constellations.

In English, we say I like to talk with you,

as if words were something we trade.

But in love we confess:

your voice is the place my heart leans toward,

every syllable a thread tugging me closer,

every pause a promise you don't know you're making.

In English, we say I like to talk with you,

a phrase that fits in daylight.

But in love we know:

I memorize the shape of your sentences,

I replay the way you breathe between words,

I hold your laughter lika a lantern in my chest.

In English, we say I like to talk with you.

But in love,

we say I wanna hear every little thing you say,

and we mean:

your voice feels like home,

even when you're not here.

- Midnight thoughts...

Sometimes I stand on the edge of myself -

half fire, half frost,

burning for something I can't name

and freezing from the fear of wanting it.

Some days, I am a storm of conviction:

loud, sure, unshakable.

Other days, I fold into silence,

a whisper afraid of its own echo.

I crave softness -

yet, I armor my heart with steel.

I long to stay - 

yet, every bone in me aches to run.

I reach toward the light,

and still, shadows cling to me.

I love the quiet,

yet, I ache for chaos and thunder.

And still - 

even with the conflict humming beneath my ribs

I exist in the in-between,

breathing, searching, becoming.

Because somewhere inside me,

beneath the noise and the doubt, 

there is a truth whispering:

You are allowed to be both.

You are allowed to be the fire and the ice.

You are allowed to be the storm

and the calm after it.

- Midnight thoughts...

 Aquele lugar, o ar.

Primeiro, fiquei sabendo que gostava de Diadorim - de amor mesmo, amor mal encoberto em amizade. Me a mim, foi de repente, que aquilo se esclareceu: falei comigo. Não tive assombro, não achei ruim, não me reprovei - na hora. Melhor alembro.

O nome de Diadorim, que eu tinha falado, permaneceu em mim. Me abracei com ele. Mel se sente é todo lambente - "Diadorim, meu amor..." Como era que eu podia dizer aquilo?

E como é que o amor desponta?

Coração cresce de todo lado. Coração vige feito riacho colominhando por entre serras e varjas, matas e campinas. Coração mistura amores. Tudo cabe.

E eu - como é que posso explicar ao senhor o poder de amor que eu criei? Minha vida o diga. Se amor? ... Diadorim tomou conta de mim.

E de repente eu estava gostando dele, num descomum, gostando ainda mais do que antes, com meu coração nos pés, por pisável; e dele o tempo todo eu tinha gostado. Amor que amei - daí então acreditei.

Um Diadorim só para mim. Tudo tem seus mistérios. Eu não sabia. Mas, com minha mente, eu abraçava com meu corpo aquele Diadorim - que não era de verdade. Não era?

Diadorim deixou de ser nome, virou sentimento meu.

Aquilo me transformava, me fazia crescer dum modo, que doía e prazia. Aquela hora, eu pudesse morrer, não me importava.

Diz-que-direi ao senhor o que nem tanto é sabido: sempre que se começa a ter amor a alguém, no rameirão, o amor pega e cresce é porque, de certo jeito, a gente quer que isso seja, e vai, na ideia, querendo e ajudando; mas quando é destino dado, maior que o miúdo, a gente ama inteiriço fatal, carecendo de querer, e é um só facear com as surpresas. Amor desse, cresce primeiro; brota é depois.

Tudo turbulindo. Esperei o que vinha dele. De um aceso, de mim eu sabia: o que compunha minha opinião era que eu, às loucas, gostasse de Diadorim, [...] no fim de tanta exaltação, meu amor inchou, de empapar todas as folhagens, e eu ambicionando de pegar em Diadorim, carregar Diadorim nos meus braços, beijar, as muitas demais vezes, sempre.

Abracei Diadorim, como as asas de todos os pássaros.

Só se pode viver perto de outro, e conhecer outra pessoa, sem perigo de ódio, se a gente tem amor. Qualquer amor já é um pouquinho de saúde, um descanso na loucura...

amor é a gente querendo achar o que é da gente.

Grande Sertão: Veredas - João Guimarães Rosa

Trechos lidos por Maria Bethânia em "Caderno de Poesias".

 Quais são as cores e as coisas pra te prender?

 A Dream Within A Dream

Edgar Allan Poe

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow -

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seen

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand -

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep - while I weep!

Oh God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

Oh God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seen

But a dream within a dream?

 Treine a si mesmo a deixar partir tudo o que teme perder.

    - Mestre Yoda

Quando vier a primavera,

Se eu já estiver morto,

As flores florirão da mesma maneira

E as árvores não serão menos verdes que na

primavera passada.

A realidade não precisa de mim.

Sinto uma alegria enorme

Ao pensar que a minha morte não tem

importância nenhuma.

Se soubesse que amanhã morria

E a primavera era depois de amanhã,

Morreria contente, porque ela era depois de

amanhã.

Se esse é o seu tempo, quando havia ela de vir

senão no seu tempo?

Gosto que tudo seja real e que tudo esteja certo;

E gosto porque assim seria, mesmo que eu não

gostasse. 

Por isso, se morrer agora, morro contente,

Porque tudo é real e tudo está certo.

Podem rezar latim sobre o meu caixão, se

quiserem.

Se quiserem, podem dançar e cantar à roda dele.

Não tenho preferências para quando já não puder

ter preferências.

O que for, quando for, é que será o que é.

- Alberto Caeiro, pseudônimo de Fernando Pessoa. 

Agora eu era o rei

era o bedel e era também juiz

e pela minha lei

a gente era obrigado a ser feliz.

E você era a princesa que eu fiz coroar

e era tão linda de se admirar

que andava nua pelo meu país.

- Chico Buarque.

That,however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my imagination, is actually the least, for what is not connected with her to me? And what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor, but her features are shaped on the flags! In every cloud, in every tree - filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object by day, I am surrounded with her imagine! The most ordinary faces of men and women- my own face - mock me with a resemblance. The entire world is a dreadful collection of memoranda thst she did exist, and that I have lost her!

- Emilly Brontë 

De que são feitos os dias?

- De pequenos desejos,

vagarosas saudades,

silenciosas lembranças.

Entre mágoas sombrias,

momentâneos lampejos:

vagas felicidades,

atuais esperanças.

De loucuras, de crimes,

de pecados, de glórias

- do medo que encadeia

todas essas mudanças.

Dentro deles vivemos,

dentro deles choramos,

em duros enlaces

e em sinistras alianças...

- Cecília Meireles.