I woke up sick of dealing with the impossibility of shouting the ideas lack.
I envy the rain that comes and goes without warning.
I embrace the impossibility of packing my emptiness into a handful of lines.
I sign a truce with a glass of red wine as a witness.
I go back to life eager to dream again.
I know I was born on the bizarre side of the world. Where poets incapable of writing poetry belong.
Proud of not submitting my feelings to the yoke of metrics and lyrics. With no interest in trafficking with the vulnerability of wounded souls. That would be cannibalism.
Pyjama pants, a bare torso, and a heat that harasses me almost sexually as I sit in the garden playing with the grass.
The dull musings about how frayed I find the world floats in the air as usual.
Maybe the moon has something to do with it. Perhaps, its ocher makeup ramps my abject self.
Gray clouds with sharp and brilliant outlines subtly caress the moon without causing harm and make its skin stand on end.
I then notice the beautiful and macabre sense of the sky I observe.
The tartar on the moon gains magnificence, and I dilute that vision with the rest of the world.
I am irremediably caught up in the vortex of everything, and I feel the blessing of being a part of the macabre and beautiful side of the world.
I feel like
I want to run until my heart bursts.
I want to scream until my throat frees all the tiny coloured birds trapped inside.
I want to stop thinking about what's next until The Future gets tired of stalking me, let its snake eyes dry while I watch the process, and wear them as buttons on the oldest long sleeve in my closet.
I want to walk barefoot in a moon-cooled garden.
I want to slowly eat you in sections.
A few days ago, someone told me they had read my nonsense and wondered where I get so much lunacy.
I didn't know how to respond then, and the only thing I could think of was the overwhelming ignominy of my naked soul.
Ramble writing is not about achieving the correct articulation of words. Much less about aiming for exquisiteness in organizing thoughts (I think no one should even try that).
I write occasionally and do so because a dried idea or feeling that once settled in my mind germinates without notice, and a timid green sprout appears and yells at me.
His voice is so tiny that often it's hard for me to hear, and writing acts as a megaphone.
This accident occurs for various reasons, almost always as a consequence of this life that I lead out of obligation and physical survival instinct and derivates in a spiritual survival mechanism.
As an untalented scribe, I am condemned to type about thoughts that are often considered insane becoming from unfamous music, dark movies, parenting, unrecognized and unrecognizable poets, photography, funny garbage and an endless amount of nonsense that charges relevance thanks to old neural connections, and also existential references from co-workers, friends, spouse, parents, siblings or even a dog showing empathy on my last walk in town.
