My spill doesn’t fit in a glass of water, not in two glasses. It doesn’t fit in large bottles, it doesn’t fit in a truck, it doesn’t fit in an entire neighborhood or in a particular city, it doesn’t fit in me.
My spill is gold and silver, it is endless, it is all at once, it is a bite and a meal, it is all together, mixed, it is pain and love, it is full, it is vigorous, it has no dimension, it is an outpouring like this, that breaks the gates of any prey, which holds and holds, that flows into the world, that flows through everything : liquid and dense, matter or spirit, hot in cold and cold in heat. My interior doors to prepare, because wherever it goes, there is nothing I do not take or do not transform.
- With a shuddering soul.
- With stimulating joy.
- It is of overwhelming pain.
- Of all that is greater.
- Of dimensional-grade lenses.
- It is not the mind that wants to fly: it is the will that needs to be freed.
- A desire that runs through the veins.
- That does not enter the world.
- But that can be the world.
- It’s a phenomenal.
- Rotational.
- Vibrating feeling: the abyss is just one of its stages.
My explosion is crazy in nature, meaningless and aimless, breaks ties and always runs forward, branches and flowers crushed on his ruthless feet, in his mad pursuit unknowingly. She’s crazy and loving, she’s divine and demonic, she’s hunger and food, she knows no limits to go to heaven, no iron harnesses holding her in me.
My spill is abnormal. He is a psychopath who wants to kill, an angel who wants to caress, has no name or stop, has no classification in his eternal intranslatable groove, on the floor of my heart, where I plant all absurdity, every dream greater than the other, every desire unintentionally, every endless principle, courage without courage, love without time, will without power.
My spill is beautiful! Perfect; it hits me, I like it, it bends me, feeds me, drags me, calms me down and set me on fire, that’s what I have left to be myself, to know where I’m going and that, even without knowing I always will, knowing that deep down, my spill knows exactly who I am.
And your spill, how is it?Never seen before? You need to know, touch it, face it and?Let him out!
Text written by Bia Cantanti Read more about the author at: http://muitomaisbiacantanti. blogspot. com. br/ https://www. facebook. com/letraemflor