Se for em Um Minuto, já não me Sou

This is not content.

It’s really long. Made not to be seen.

It’s already come a long way just to reach the third line.

I’ve been tracing myself through making —

uncountable hours I can’t speed up.

It would change its whole nature.

If I make it a single minute, I’m no longer there.

How am I supposed to exist in the count of seconds

if everything I believe in takes time?

It’s been happening for eternity, for generations —

forever been — always will.

Spiral time.

That’s where I started.Not sure I’ll ever get anywhere.

How the hell did we end up here?

How can one make sense of things

while editing, mirroring, shortening oneself?

I told myself it’s either one way or the other.

So I am taking my time — pretending it’s a choice,

as if another option ever existed.

Being spoiled, as they said.

That’s not how this “tool” is supposed to be “used.”

Self-expression.

Not really mine.

Just like out there —specific parameters for how you should exist.

First to survive.

Then to be seen.

Ironically, being seen

is exactly what puts my body in danger.

This impossible paradox.

Have you ever thought about it?

We are not invisible — it’s just too specific, mute angles.

If I say too much, no one watches,

and maybe — finally — I am safe.

Because first, I want to be safe.

And only then, I want to be heard.

And here I am, choosing these foreign words to say it.

Sounds so stupid.

But choosing how I write

carries the same feeling —

I am just mad in this tone.

Portuguese lives in another territory,

where I actually step with my own feels.

A ground I can dance.

But they said I needed to be broader

to be heard.

Atravessei oceanos,

sabendo que esse mundo não é de quem vem.

Não poderia me importar menos com essa outra língua,

mas são tantas as estruturas para não ouvir —

mesmo gritando muito alto desde lá —

sigo tentando vozes, sempre errada.

Em que idioma decidiram esse futuro que chegou?

Tenho meus palpites.

Tudo que é urgente grita — não escutam —fingem que grito precisa de tradução.

“Portuguese, the language,” I said.

My everything is colonized.

We learned all these codes as conditions,

just not to know how to say it.

I don’t feel safe in any of them — maybe silent.

And even so, I’m sorry you will never understand

how my language feels inside me.

It has soul, no boundaries.

Pois direi nessa nova forma de silêncio, no tempo sem alcance,

em longos textos que ninguém lê.

Farei com as próprias mãos

em longos vídeos que ninguém assiste —

serei invisível.

No ao contrário.

Do tempo, da imagem, da voz.

Me parece que, se virar tudo do avesso,

talvez exista.