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We spend our lives remembering the past, some more than others but in fact it's probably the only thing that we do all the damn time. Without distinction. That is why I will write this entry in first person without weaving with literary artifacts such as methaphors or masking a bit of me in a lot of the rest. Today, everything and me are real. Why? Because always I am a fucking lie. I was. I loved. I sang. I screamed. I wrote. I disappeared. I came back and I... I went away (again). The simple past seems a verbal tense created to threaten us with uncomfortable truths. Truths that already hit our conscience and were assimilated by our memory. Truths that are already chapters of life closed and which... Okay. Keep calm I'm not going to talk about grammar to give a boring class and to say it's used to express an action already finished. Curiously, I never stopped too much with the past and I have serious deficits to conjugate the verb, or had to say to conjugate my truth...

In this poem I perform a playback thinking that I reach the song that I left back. To you, Destiny Goddess, that on canvas I drew fugitives stanzas of that melody that I once imagined: you were fairy, you were destiny and you were fatality sweet Perseid of infinite end whose fate I now inquire Why did you precipitate? If your stars I never reached under this sinister heaven that only knew death. Poem - Fallen Perseid With abrupt end, inspired by mythology and style too imperfect, how could this be a poem? their verses, months after being written, might even like you. Even they could be dedicated to an imperfect Heaven Goddess or a Predictable Destiny Muse, who knows, both mortal beings. Although to be completely clear  in this poem there is nothing of poetry  but something rhythmic that looks like a rudimentary adolescent occurrence. Moreover, it's the self love which adorns this empty poem. The woman figure is deified beyond poet's ego and then throw...

There was an era when (he) made music out of everything: his life, his feelings, and, naturally, his writing. As for his poems, it was as if every verse carried its own musical pattern, a kind of dual dimension; and by “dual” I mean what Space and Time are in physics; where his rhythms, both syllabic and musical, would hold a perfect, synchronized duality. But to be honest, I didn’t see anything special in his poems, so I supposed it was as if some savant mind had tried to make the syllables, the tempo, the scale, or whatever, fit somehow ma(themat/gic)ally into a single space-time weave, and that this fabric would even have texture, taste, color, and musical tone. Ah! I can’t breathe. And I, a mere mortal, could only dissociate them to perceive each aspect individually, one by one, but never together. He had musical synesthesia, and I, to decipher it, had imagination and letters. Do you know what antidissociative means?—he would insist, wanting me to understand—It’s seeing a pi...