About Synchronicities and Patterns

I am still trying to decipher the logic of patterns in my life, and in conjunction, how to interpret the synchronicities flying before my eyes. At the present moment I am obsessing over why 19 out of 20 times that I am walking to work the light to cross to the other side of Columbus Avenue, where I eventually have to go to, is simply not green.
Due to that impertinent light I am forced to walk straight up for another block, which, FINE, it’s still OK and it’s still on my way, but it bothers me, why, WHY can’t I just cross first and then walk that other block?
So I decided to carefully observe every single thing on that side of the block. Oh my God, I was just completely blown away by so many things that there were in that 264 x 1056 square block! Maybe I was meant to trip on a one million dollar check!
Thus I spent a couple of days scanning the ground in search for my fortunate treasure. I gave up on it when I started tripping too much on absolutely nothing, because obviously I’m not used to walking like some sort of famished dog sniffing every bit of the ground in hope to find some leftovers.
Then I thought maybe I was meant to find my soul mate! Yeah… so I embodied the seductress huntress persona and threw as many fatale gazes as I could into every person’s eyes (well, not really every person… oddly enough they seemed to range between age 24 and 30 and be either tall, blond with blue or green eyes or medium-height black-haired sexy, hot, beautiful women. But that’s just a coincidence!).
Some smiled back, some were highly disturbed by my look. I don’t blame them, I mean, I was staring at them like when you’re expecting someone to tell you something you know? “So… what’s up…? [looooong pause] Are you gonna reveal yourself as my soul mate now or what?”.
Anyways, back to all this being just a coincidence, the question that pops up to my head is whether everything happens for a reason or if there are some things that just happen. If there are things that just happen randomly then I surely believe in coincidences, which I am sure I don’t. I know it’s not in my power to explain everything and find all these why’s, but random? I don’t buy it.
Having this issue solved, let’s talk about synchronicities. For instance, my subconscious screamed “hot, tall, blonde, medium-height, black-haired, beautiful, foxy ladies, pleeeeaseeeee!” therefore alluring the energies that read those characteristics to my welcoming lap.
It would be possible though to perhaps have ran into a fat, bald, old lady whose energy really felt and believed that it contained the points I sought, as well as it would be possible that a strikingly beautiful woman passed by me unknown, for maybe she was deeply feeling unsexy and unwanted.
Well, still to this day I have not yet found my soul mate. So I tried thousands of other different approaches in order to find anything meaningful enough to explain to me why the universe prevented me from crossing. Maybe I’d die if crossed! That sounded like a logical explanation. I have always envisioned myself dying in a car and I was definitely not ready to die, so yeah… it made sense… sort of.
It still remains a mystery to me this particular pattern of non-crossing, but I have not yet given up trying to understand where the synchronicities are taking me. It is fascinating and exciting.
The reason why I don’t stop trying to analyze them is because I refuse the idea of fatalism. Being said so, I believe I contribute in part to the control on how things unfold in my life. It is up to the universe, true, but it is also up to me.
Sometimes, aren’t you in a situation where you really, really wanted something and then the very opposite just happened? And years later you look back and you’re like “fuck yeah, thank God I didn’t hook up with that crazy dude. He’s in jail now for murder” or something? Believe me, NOT a coincidence.
And how about when you finally find someone incredible, and awesome and you both decide to be into a relationship and then bang! Bang!: all these hot ladies come flying at you, calling you, all of a sudden! Telling you how much they want to “hang out” and shit… So intriguing… yes, but this is story for another chapter.


She told me she thought she was always missing out on things and I told her I'm always thinking about how much I gain. And that was the main difference between us.

Relationship with Patient #28: TERMINATED

She had a good heart, but she had arrhythmia.

Dans ma Lumiére: The Sentinel

Watching the people who pass by. Sitting on any given random wood seat. What’s the purpose? Of the wood you mean? Or the any given seat? Or the figures of that that is endlessly passing, passing. Everything is always passing, she’s always watching. The Tower. She saw the crippled man move her favorite chess piece.
It was time to make a move. Standing up, crossing the street to the nearest gas station. Ethereal.
Corroded wood door: already open. They say a human being needs approximately 30m². I don’t know. Maybe. Need. That’s the minimum you would need in order to feel that uncomforted zone but still manage it. The toilet was big enough to turn fingers into weapons of a chirurgical precision and her thoughts, the puke. They fit nice. The herd tormenting fits nice. And as it builds up to a crescendo, fingers are like bows gridding against ran down strings of hope and faithlessness. Someone call a luthier.
Flush it down. Gulp down the rest of air left in what’s left of your lungs and watch it all go again. Down. It’s a downwards spiral. I start off from a central point and in a progressive progression I get myself farther and farther away while still revolving around it…
Sounds familiar? You wannabe helix!
The adrenaline inebriated motion. Inebriated emotion. But her moments never seemed to be this perpetual before. It is even etymologically incorrect to call them moments. Self-deception. Self-decapitation.
She reached through her pocket. Time to become the Sentinel. As swallowing it the prayer of the day:
extreme thirst, urinating more or less than usual; weakness, fever, feeling restless or confused, eye pain and vision problems; restless muscle movements in your eyes, tongue, jaw, or neck; pain, cold feeling, or discoloration in your fingers or toes; feeling light-headed, fainting, slow heart rate; hallucinations, seizure (blackout or convulsions); fever with muscle stiffness, sweating, fast or uneven heartbeats; or early signs of lithium toxicity, such as nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, drowsiness, muscle weakness, tremor, lack of coordination, blurred vision, or ringing in your ears.
Less serious side effects:
mild tremor of the hands; weakness, lack of coordination; mild nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, stomach pain or upset; thinning or drying of the hair; or itching skin.
There she was. Observing her being from outside. Watching. What's the purpose?

Raffaella Ciavatta

From a steamy window
I watch
singular couples
open & close their mouths.
To eat.

I hear what they say:
the clinking of silverware.
I feel what they feel:
medium rare emotions.

I wish I were 30:
the age I dream I'll
be a successful artist
to the rest of the world
(and to myself),
I will have my own
apartment, actually
it will be the era I will
use our more than anything.
So our apartment.
I would definitely love
to share my space
with my soul mate.

Sharing is one of
my many qualities:
hey, would you like some gum?
would like some of my dish?
Do you want to borrow this book?
Of course I can share my time with you!
My heart? Yes, I'll share that!
My mind? Yes! I'm getting excited here!
My soul? Without hesitation!
My whole being? Yes, yes, yes!

And all that to whom?
To broad, high-definition,
high-speed connections
we eagerly make
on a subway rides and
dare to call them connections?
Are you fucking kidding me?

But hey, by the time I'm 30,
I will have known better.
I will not connect on subways.

That means today I have
approximately 4 years and
2 months
to 1 be as famous as Picasso,
2 meet a woman who will first
be my friend then will magically
become the most amazing lover
I’ve ever had and right before
I turn 30 will use our like never before.

All of that in 4 years and 2 months.

When Doing Things, Just DO Them

Cried, I would have,
Put my armor to rest,
I would have,
Taken her hands to my darkness,
I would have,
Written a thousand more poems,
I would have.

Enough of poetry.
Cut this crap.

Friendship is not a capsule dear,
you can't just gulp it down
whenever you please,
but if you choose to
make sure I'm at least your
3,4 methylenedioxymethamphetamine.

And love can't alone
but if you choose to
let it do so
make sure you know
all that you are to me
is nothing but
a pump to my ego.

Inner Self

I wish I could explain more the person I was, but I'd rather reveal myself if you ask.


I’ll Never Be What You Want Me To Be, But I Promise To Be Myself If You Let Me Be With You.

It’s always fall fall fall
fall fall and it all!
The strobe blinks
in the place of my eyes.


--------Love is a bloodstain.
--------Passion is an infatuation.
--------Friendship is a constant learning.
Can’t we have them all?


A girl is simply a girl.


Why do you deny your own
Call me hedonistic, bohemian…
I’m free to wander…


Your innocent smile,
Your confusion,
You know I’m
but so beautiful,
You’ll want more, more,
I’m endlessly giving.


I’ll leave as quickly
as I came in, so
I’ll come back just
as soon.


Your tears in vain
water not my absence
but the person you
wish I were.

Past In Present

I saved them all.
The text messages
(like I could read your
mind at anytime),
The posts on the internet
(I screamed to the world
how much I loved you),
The pictures
(we captured moments so well
they felt like non-moments),
The phone bills
(I loved to see your name
next to mine
in such formal documents).

Your kisses?
They mingle with everyone else’s,
Your touch?
I don’t know, but this girl’s feels good,
Your voice?
I met way better singers than you,
Your writing?
I am too busy with my own,

I saved them all…
And now I need to save myself.

Inner Self


The boy, already confused in excess dared to ask him. No, not really. Alright, it is really necessary to ask:
- I don’t know how to live… I am afraid, too much confusion, too many choices, up’s and down’s. I always choose that that exists to crumble.
The old man smiled sideways, raised his eyebrows. He let a small laughter slip, like everything was way too obvious for him, way too clear, overcolored and perhaps he found his childish way of expressing things too simplified and lacking in better grammatical construction.
- Son, you live this way for you live in the past. The past is, for the most part, the only moment in time we know, and this is why we never free ourselves from it. We let it tame us. The past you see, if you fail you fail not in a new mistake, but in the same one. Past/ prison/patterns.
He paused.
The boys’ phone wouldn’t stop vibrating. Work, it must be work. He would never leave unless it was a matter of life and death. He thought more death in this case.
When it stopped the old man carried on.
- How can you dare deny something that you yet don’t know, presupposing that it will thus fail? Simple. Because automatically you transform everything in past, therefore you already know the end. However, young man, life is bigger than present, past and future. The glory is found in empiricism, not in passivism or nihilism. When regretting, regret that which you did not do, rather than that you did. Not because you are justifying things in your head, but in order to gain a different perspective of your mistakes. Regret, for example, not having said “yes” to that which you really regret, rather than saying you regret saying “yes”. The future, just like the present and past, is dubious, it’s uncertain, even those things we already know is unknown in its totality.
He made some tricks with his can and swung it from one side to the other.
The boy looked confused but asked him anyways.
- Are you happy?
The old man seemed unhappy with his question.
- Happy? I am a pendulum boy.
The stroke of mid-day. The elder stood up from the seat he was, across from our character’s side, and walked away. The unemployed boy whose Zodiac was Libra remained perplexed on the amount of projections he made in the universe. The phone vibrating again, his dealer was the only person who could really help him deal with everything around him. It’s too much.

Inner Self


To/The End

Staring at the smoke dissolving through the air everything, in a paused way, makes perfect sense - laisse-moi tempêter -. No cigarettes to fulfill this void. No words from the rest to change a thing. It seems it’s not changing. It’s getting worst, of course, evolving. Not for me. I’m that who chooses not to live a lie, it’s either to jump or to turn my back. Illusions. Maybe that’s what everything is for you. My reality is just as raw as the drags I take.
I closed the door and turned away.

Inner Self

This is one of the poems I actually dreamed about. I dreamed of Baudelaire and him and I collaborated in the piece that follows. When I woke up, oddly enough I had memorized the whole poem.


Lost? Very much found, merci

To find South
without losing North…
comment, comment
je fait a trouver?
Around paranoia,
around spasms…!
Yeah, all of this
is sort of spamic.

Mas você escolheu o jeito fácil,
Então, hey menininha, não chore.

Troublesome is how
you fully believe in
the little stories you tell, how
you’re never the one to blame.
Admit it, not even yourself
know how you feel.

Mais, c’est la manie.

So I have to write
in hollow verses how
we didn’t try, how
we didn’t realize, how
it wouldn’t do, how nothing.

É, não há grande plano,
É do jeito que tem de ser.

Just because I know, I know…

Inner Self

[This was more of a song than a poem, but I obviously don't remember the rhythm to it]

Golden Memories of Past and Future

I wish I were with that
whose sweet verses
I have all in my mind
waiting to be recited,
to make me weak on the
knees, to whom I would
send stupid love songs...
that would make only sense
to me and her.

I search myself in everyone,
I’m empty like that, you see,
I’d show you the world and all
the beauty you possessed, if
you could only believe...

It doesn’t matter,
it doesn’t mean anything,
at all.

Choices are my doom, I always
fall into mistakes, I’m never
afraid to run, I need you to
hold me down, say I cannot leave.

But it’s all in my mind,
all in my fucked up little world,
it will never happen.
Do you think I can have back
the chance that exists only in my head?

Inner Self

Part of

I thought of myself as
capable of such.
Vows, never.
Commitments, partial.

It seems I’m only in part,
they restrain me.
I cannot see completeness.
How shall I reach it and
still, still be myself?

I promise to be myself.
No, even on that one I have
failed before ...

Inner Self


Untitled – Author with No Name

not only visual,
depression like
the gradual erosion
of my being…

What being, after all?

To live = to die
and not the other way around.

I can’t stand
I cant stand

I can’t
be a column

I cry, cry
and the


so much like this…
far from being

Your absence,
the riverbed hammering
of “you let me go”
when I ran.
It pecks me like
the eternal crow of Prometheus.

Inner Self

[Sequence of parts of me which are mostly like "dark" secrets, but that I am now leaving open to interpretation]


what you really should do
is stick up to your own prison...
My little girl... I’m
about to leave you
for I am merely that who carries the
undying candle
deliveries it to your door
but always ought to walk away...
Empty- handed
diminished in spirit and
enhanced in soul...
For what I once had is now yours, my dear!

I walk like a book
my end
my middle
and my beginning already known.

In hope to find another
candle bearer I must wander
on my own.
All these girls… none walk with me.

Inner Self

[As you can see from the date, it is an old poem, however, dealing with ghosts that still haunt me.]


I don’t feel that
hatred when I think of her: loneliness.
he screams and the piercing freedom flies,
scream and lose myself in
of her, again.

it’s like the guava fruit fly,
it’s born inside her, it’s part of her.
it is in her like an ingrown nail that
will never,
be removed.

so I used to brag myself,
thinking that she was
what I most wanted,
I was as comfortable as
a cloud couch
from which I fell, from up there I fell.

and by only desiring her
I let not that others touched me,
I became the most ethereal rock
I ever met,

go figure…

truth is this is my eternal daymare,
reason why I am not scared.

to hell with people-around-me
I want only the Raffaella

help me not to run away anymore?

First Time I wasn't the Poet

She said: when I make love to you it's like I'm looking into death's eyes and then you just make me live again.

The Journey

The Shaman lady said: "if you raise your hands above in the air, it becomes breeze, then wind blowing her spirit to the tips of your fingers. You feel it like swirls around you, like sun rays in the middle of the night. If you close your eyes then, that same wind will travel and find her skin to lay on, if you just close your eyes, there is no way she won't feel you too."


My hand struggles
between fist and
being open.

She's so present
that my hands are
just wanna-be fists,
I cannot

Their palms just
naturally tend to face up,
as if anticipating
that her hands are
going to land onto mine.

And how they do!


And her mind was just like an office: in order to make a decision she had to get marketing's approval, accounting's go-ahead, HR's opinion and IT's last minute reconsideration on the matter.


Clarice, it’s either too clear for me or not clear at all. There are days in which I wake up feeling like I have reincarnated. I think “fuck, this is not my life, this is not my job, these are not my feelings”… but they are, aren’t them?
Giacomo, the joy of faith pierces me with its sharp sounds and leaves me to die today, just to resuscitate me tomorrow. Here I appear, in front of thee, wonderful world. Hell.
Woolf, there’s a bestiality in me I keep shackled in my veins, I twitch them, I smile, I watch them throb, I dig my very cave and no one knows, but our thoughts are our greatest gift and curse.
William, let me find the will to keep on flying to be ignorant when desperate, for only sheer ignorance can make me hope for the best, only it can make me calm down, open my sacred book on Psalm 91 and actually feel those words giving me strength. Dare I say, o Ignorance, you make me praise the Lord!
Dear Søren, the emptiness of your “O” has always fascinated me. I look down to my bellybutton, I swear, I tried innumerous times to press it and have myself turned on “happy mode” on “rich mode” on “goal achieved mode”, but there are more buttons in life, in empty “O”s waiting to become the “O” of the Latin alphabet.
Whoever, I wish I were speaking to God.

[Title in the End]

She cut pieces of memories:

Geometric shapes bleeding,

Laughing, feeling, thinking

And wired them together

Into a vest I wore.

These moments of her life

Were to me unknown but

I put them on anyways:

I felt photographs

As much as I felt

Her breath heavy in my mouth.

So we danced like nobody

Could tell how connected

We are

And I spun past, present and future

In endless ballerina's spinnings.

So we sat down on the floor

Like nobody could tell our similar tastes

And I dove into her voice

About stories of each little piece

Now in me hanging.

So she took it off me

Like nobody could tell

We are in


And I understood her better:

We both got naked

(And I wasn't scared).

- The Fashion Designer

The stranger, the difference he made, he will never know

The man in the subway
smiled at me:
he knew my smile was
safe and serene,
he thought I was whole
and upright,
and just because he thought so
I started believing in it too.


At the restaurant she said she's afraid of missing out on things: she wants everything at the same time, I told her
"well, try eating rice and beans with sashimi and hamburger all the same time. Bet your favorite dishes taste delicious now, huh?"

Love Poem

The day transgresses
in a turtle pace
with a monotone
and automatic beat
to it
(could that possibly
be my heart?)

I’m moving but
I’m frozen,
I’m speaking now
but all this speech
could just be a recording
(I love fooling people,
especially myself)

I miss you, I miss you
so much…
I’m colorblind
and pale without you,
my dear poetry.

Love Poem

I write to self-punish,
I don't write to self-punish,
when I work out,
I make sure my body aches,
aches until I can feel
of fat, bone,
muscles and sweat.

When I eat, every bite's
a calorie counted
and when I swallow
ingredients are well known,
when my stomach is empty,
its growl is my self-punishment
of how little I have grown.

The books I read, self-punishment
for ignorance,
my openness, self-punishment
for years of reclusion,
my love, self-punishment for my
lack of

the girls I date, self-punishment for
the guys I date, self-punishment for
the indifferent and playful girls I date,
sex, self-punishment for making love,
making love, self-punishment
for being skeptical
(and why do I always prove myself wrong?)

drugs, self-punishment for being
way too sober,
music, self-punishment to silence,

loving you, just another self-punishment.

Poets and All

What is it that
inspires us to keep
doing it?
A genuinely
depressed look on that
Hispanic lady’s eyes on the subway?
That 2000-calorie
sub still swimming
somewhere across your butt
and your thick thighs?
No, it got to be that
phrase you read on a silly
high school book, so stupid
and non-sense because all of the kids
burst into laughter…
(well, all except you)

Or perhaps it’s just
that superiority feeling of
being an omniscient
narrator, sort of untouched
and sort of part of it all
but hey, not really.

Why is it that we still
keep doing it?

Seriously, we must be
addicted to it, otherwise
we wouldn’t do it,
for when we do it
(which is basically all the time)
we do it with fire,
with fist and spit,
we cling our jaws
and bite our teeth!

There is no other way we would know how.

Dialogues to Have when You're Letting the Dishes Dry

There are four things I expect out of any relationship. Four? I thought you were going to come up with a 3-thing definition, since 3 is your favorite number. Yeah, that's what I had come up with long ago, for the sake that 3 was my thing, therefore it would have to be 3. But recently, I have to be honest and tell you that I loved being surprised by this even number instead: I surrendered to the new, to the break of patterns and standards, which honestly made me feel very uneasy, as if I had betrayed number 3 I guess... yeah. But then, since I had applied the basic 3 elements that I thought were important, 3 did not feel left out, it was actually very happy when it realized that the addition of another number was going to be beneficial and important for our growth, for us both. Yeah, I mean, 3 knew for sure you are not a heartless bitch who wants to fuck with it so its feelings remained untouched. Did yours too? Yes, of course. And here's where the final element comes to tie together all other 3, for without this last one, I'm just going to be what I have been all my existence: a beautiful and awesome woman, the sweetest woman I have ever met in my entire life, the woman who changed my life! And then that but comes into scene... and I'm tired of buts. Very, very tired. So, here they are: Honesty, Loyalty, Communication and Reciprocity. Was reciprocity the new element? Yes. How can you even start anything without reciprocity? I guess I believe people eventually will balance things out, realize that when you walk hand to hand instead of in front or behind, things become so much more solid and everlasting. But there's a very weird need of being the submissive (always being taken care of) or being the dominant (always taking care of) one. And it's easy to play that role when you feel the other 3 elements are there because reciprocity is so implicit and way too obvious that you tend to forget about it.

Well, I'm never ever going to forget about it again.

Dialogues to Have when You're Doing the Dishes

I don’t really like to write love poems, neither to perform them. She looked at me and smiled. What? I laughed, that nervous kind of laughter you know? Nothing, I just feel all the poems you write are about love.

I felt so naked and defenseless, no wonder why I don’t like love poems.

Cosmic Gate

Oh my God,

everything is so warm:

from my eyes drops of beauty,

I cry beauty,

from my eyes splash of beauty,

from my eyes... I water beauty

moistening my face,

I was my own drops of beauty,

those rolling down my cheeks,

joy and beauty washing down

the cracked skin of my cheeks,

lotuses float on my lake,

there's a small cherry tree above me,

the yellow flower, one on my ear, three

thousand of them by my feet,

I want to lay down on that field of

peace, let me, let me hold your hand

my lemon grass-sage lady, my muse,

my man, my brother, my teacher and student,

my inspiration, the reverberating beat

of my soul.


We called in sick:
Coffee, 24 hours awake
and counting!
elegant retro bike
found in the trash,
hold my hand,
grab my waist
we're riding to the sand
where our feet touch
the ocean where the
clouds are our shelter
but forget the umbrella
for the rain is coming
slowly, then showers of
alignment with the
and thunderstorm alluring
us to the nakedness
of skinny-dipping,
oh, Govinda, I see
my heart
serene and fast
out of my chest
she holds it dearly.

The sun set behind
the transparent clouds:
it is clear what we are.

Emotional Splatters

Fingertips explode
in splatter of orange
then in yellow-sun then
in electric blue
as they run across
my lower back
(my lover's back)
and back to the top
of my steep neck,
the sheets white
then patterns of
gold and brown mandalas
spread all over them
when I roll over her,

splatter splatter
shapes blinking squares
of emotional swirls...


How our cells burst into
powder of love and the
dust of energy dissipates
in the air and mingles
with jasmine incense,
our rhythmic
our moans percussion live,
your hair the intertwined
feelings now running
through my hand...
Your flower touching mine.

Mirabai, mira
como derretome por ti!

Emotional Patterns

Could I feel any different?

Ephemerality of love

[Heart by resurgere @ deviantart, I couldn't have done a better job ;)]

I do not know why I insist on writing love poems. They are always burned. Words so powerfully diminished by whatever reason... feelings smashed by the hammer of non-reciprocity, implicit thoughts infesting the nest of beauty like cockroaches, the worms make their way deep into the earth of my soft and easy-to-play-with heart, the dark trance manifests its beats in my pulse, my life-partner, she's gone, again.


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