Inner Babel / Babel Interior

While contemplating the crumbling of my youth, I think of songs which once made sense. Words expressing the pointless sorrows. Drums and guitars, never too loud or too insistent, telling me to recoil or expand. Keyboards providing me shelter or direction. The heart that hoped feels battered.The rain falling outside sounds, on the roof, like fire burning the Cerrado. It will probably bring new uninvited plants to our garden. Like the Heliconia that months ago was just a single leaf sprouting across the red dirt. That was right before we hired that gardener who killed the grass. We still hope it will miraculously grow green once more. I don’t know. I have no more money, disposition or time to seriously think about it. I have no time. I would like to see the next intruder blooming in the garden though. I wish for something as unique as the Heliconia. If that is in fact what it is. I wish for something beautiful. I breathe with difficulty and nothing has ever been  as I...

If you tell me to imagine I'm holding something in my hands. And if you tell me to write about this imaginary object. This thing I imagine will unavoidably be a soap bubble. I have come to terms with my obsession for soap bubbles. It does not mean I understand where it comes from. This understanding is probably part of my mission on Earth, our blue little planet floating away in the universe like one little bubble itself. There is, perhaps,  right there an explanation in the fact that the world we live may be seen as a soap bubble from afar. Perhaps, that is a small part of the whole explanation, the impermanence of life in its large and small concerns, the frailty and beauty of our human dreams. Our imperfect connexions, our frustrated attempts to be truly seen and contemplated, our impossibility of floating towards the other without creating some kind of damage, even if unintentionally. Our flaws, our protective covers scretching against the skin of the ones we love, like th...