a place with all and no power at all

vibra o som do sol queimando o silêncio ao redor
com o incinerador cimento reduzindo a cinzas o sujeito
que alguma vez pensou-se livre, acha-se hoje cremado,
vermelho lúgubre derramando luz laranja como fonte de lava

esclarecendo-se passa, embora, o tempo e assombra-se 

pelas mudanças por si mesmo causadas, maldito Cronos

e seu tempo fora do tempo, vida eterna porém tão mortífera

vida sem vida, passando, rendida, como escombros

de uma velha igreja gótica enchida de arlequines vermelhos

e virgens de verdes e amarelos dourados, velho luxo sem brilho

em duas dimensões não se distingue o verdadeiro nível da mentira

e foge como baixo-relevo dos limites da de ser pedra o dançarino

que se acha deus ou homem, que se acha livre e pensa que pode

por si mesmo seu destino decidir, morre, à mercê de todo além

The Burial of the Dead from TS Elliot's The Waste Land

—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing. 

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.

 From, The Waste Land

by TS Elliot

What can be said of anything when beauty is all that takes up space in my mind as I splurge my time in thinking? Writing and reading in a café where half the people work and the other half spend their time doing something that will somehow make them better. This constant bettering and the necessity to always constantly improve bewitched me from the moment I realize it runs our lives. Its best expression being the need to be content. The fear of being unhappy is but another part of it, which composes apparently a human right - and has turned into a human obligation. The pursuit of happiness is nothing but a way to take off the possibility and the respectability of being sad and miserable. Yet it is this sadness and misery the only thing that enables the ability to know what happiness and any semblance of joy. I offer you a smile besmirched by reality, the uncontainable impulse to implode, to believe in existence through existentialism. It is through the ugly that we can see and re-define the beautiful.