Cryptic

I will be the apos­tle of light as long as I live. I’m not so sure about that, even if it’s my desire. I will also accept the bloody hands of the shad­ows, sculp­tors of the eter­nal splen­dors that slip through our fin­gers. I am a Don Quixote of cliff words, tem­per­ate waters. Many ships pop­u­late my lagoon oceans.

I am a pris­on­er of my self­ish mir­ror, ready to fight with the uni­verse when I bare­ly have the breath to sing. I’m an autumn fra­grance that win­ter will freeze, that too, I don’t fuck­ing know.

I hear my soul protest­ing with­in its four walls about my log­ic as a wan­der­er. It’s because it also sees light through the only win­dow it has. I am both free and pris­on­er, with­out vision in a lux­u­ry fog, my eyes wide and open, sur­prised and fright­ened by the spec­ta­cles of their imaginations.

We will not under­stand any of this. If I tell you that I am curi­ous like a cat, greedy like a dog, I will remain for you only a pile of metaphors.

I should be more trans­par­ent and honest.