Knowing, I know little, barely nothing, yet it seems I can’t stop believing I know it all, at least up until the moment I realize how much I wholly ignore it.
And for unknown I take all that I think knowing without hesitation, for certainty frequently contains scantly more than nothing corroborated by doubt.
Hesitant on words, I take hold of contention in acting as a way to express myself in an eloquent silence.
I rest quiet, consent all whenever I see fit, ration what I say and say it rightly. I level my mental suffusion with topical applications, anesthetics of fresh air with smell of a sight over Tejo.
The sky, the clouds shaped like unfinished shapes, the electric revolution and the moist torments that so often close the most ordinary October, drying the vestiges of what grinds me, and if I lose focus, chews me like someone who exhaustively munches the first bite of something.
When looking at it, that sky, I find myself more lost than I should want, that I bluntly admit.
I know, however, that hardly am I the one giving into such cathartic state fueled by this upmost humanness residing in every individual. And that, knowing it, tastes good.