Chaos has never been the problem. It has always been there, it gave rise to everything. It was from the apparent void that the stars were born.— % &
The real question has never been about avoiding chaos. It is about what I do when it arrives. And it does arrive. In the form of changes I did not ask for, of endings I did not expect, of plans that implode without warning. In the form of days that seem too heavy to carry and nights that do not end with the lightness of a new beginning.
— % &
But amidst all this, there is one essential detail: chaos does not decide who I become. I decide.

I can believe that I am being destroyed or I can see that I am being shaped.

I can see only loss or I can see the space for something new. I can give in to fear or I can take a step forward, even if my legs tremble.

— % &
Chaos did not come to punish me, it came to wake me up. To take me out of autopilot. To force me to ask myself what really matters. To make me realize that, despite everything, I still have a choice.

Chaos is not my enemy. He is the messenger of a truth, one that perhaps I am still learning to hear.— % &
Then I will find stability in movement. I will hear the melody in noise. I will see patterns in seeming randomness.

There is a strength in me to be discovered in adversity. A resilience to be awakened by the roar of chaos.— % &
Chaos is not here to stay. It is here to transform.

And when I emerge on the other side of chaos - I will not be just a survivor.— % &
I will be a living testament to the fact that order, meaning and strength can be found precisely in the places where I thought I would find only fragility.— % &
It is not about overcoming chaos. It is about becoming the kind of person who, when everything seems to be falling apart, does not ask, "Why me?" But silently answers, "This doesn't shake me anymore."— % &

-

When I was a child, my mother would say, “Tomorrow will be different.” And I, innocent, always believed it. And for a long time I did. — % &
I grew up waiting for that perfect tomorrow, where I would finally be brave enough to do what was necessary. To change what was necessary. Now I understand that procrastination is just another word for giving up slowly. That comfort is just a fancy name we give to the fear we don’t want to face. — % &
Every time I procrastinate, I dig a little hole for the person I could have been. Every time I say “later,” I bury a little piece of my potential, deep down I realize. — % &
Our longest relationship is with our own broken promises. They follow us like shadows at dusk, lengthening, growing darker, until we can no longer tell where we end and where they begin. — % &
What we don’t do creates holes inside us, emptiness that we fill with distractions, with excuses, with regrets. These holes form caves where fear disguises itself as rationality, prudence, tiredness, not being ready, not being enough. Meanwhile, something vital slips through our fingers, imperceptible until the day we look back and discover the dimension of what we have not lived. — % &
The truth is simple and that is why it is so difficult to face: we are betraying ourselves, one day at a time. That is why I understood that change does not begin with courage; it begins with the truth. It hurts more, it heals better. — % &
There is no perfect technique for living our own life. There is only the beginning, repeated every day. There is only me, facing the mirror and deciding whether I will, once again, postpone my own encounter with the truth. — % &
It is not about not being afraid, but about deciding to walk with it like an old friend who no longer controls where I am going. Or until I understand that it is a complete illusion. — % &
Time does not forgive, does not negotiate, does not wait. It simply passes, taking with it all the versions of me that hesitated at the door of a transformation. — % &
It's about stopping tolerating the unbearable and choosing what's difficult to overcome.

Maybe there's only one thing that can be done: it's exactly what I need to do. How long will I wait?— % &

-

I write a poem
and post it on YQ
not one of my best
not the way you
would like it to be.
But I post it anyway
to receive one, two,
three hearts from you
which I don't know
what they mean.
For me they are
your poem about
having seen me
and read me.

-

All our conversations
are virtual. All images
are virtual. Our kiss
is virtual. Your arms
are virtual too.
I don't think it's that bad,
since so many places
are virtual and so are
many virtual friends.
Not to mention that
we never die virtually,
there's always a past,
even if it's a comment,
a photo brought back
to Google's memory.
Our texts, our songs,
our shared memes.
They'll say we were
so funny when
we were alive.
And our love,
how beautiful!
Saved forever
in apps, in the clouds.

-

I bump
into the body of the world.
And the world marks my skin,
takes me by the hand, tears me apart,
goes through, opens up.
I move forward
like someone undoing seams,
untying knots.
Like someone looking at the sky
waiting for rain.
I am someone whose
only smile is for loving pets.
But also for opening maps
to caress with my finger
where you are now.

-

i have been crying
so much,
for so many days
since last month.

my eyes now
have outlines
of fossilized tears.

-

love has made me
a magnet
for such delicate
dangers.

i hang up the phone,
stretching my body
and licking my lips
like a cat
returning home
after a night
of hunting.

-

The character in the film
is about to cry,
but he holds back.
I cry,
because of his drama,
because of my own.
He remembers good times,
which make him sad now.

I look away for a moment,
our photos on the fireplace.
The image of happiness
is sad.
And that
doesn't make sense.

-

passion,
a target
that i tried
to avoid,
but i hit it
unintentionally,
despite my lack
of aim.

i pulled
the trigger.
i was the one
who fell.

-

fighting
not to cry
is a fight
that has already
started
with losing.

-