“Humans are nothing more than educated, semi-organized and inventive animals who create stories to amuse themselves. Some stories become more serious than they should be, like god, soul or love.“

Some ask me if I am an atheist.

If I reply yes, I feel like my answer is incomplete.

Yes, I am atheist.

But it goes beyond a simply unbelief in a invisible, unconcerned mystical being.

Besides fighting against fictions like a god, I fight against love, the soul and a lot of fairy tales some people take too seriously.

Who will win?

Won’t be me, sure. Those fairy tales will continue to haunt humanity years after my bones got dry.

(However, if I can choose, I prefer to be cremated, a la vikings).

Miracle, as a lot of ideas, can bear different meanings for different people.

For me, miracle means sheer luck only, not a work from a “god” or any other entity.

Any fundamentalist would interpret miracle as a divine act.

But wait, so everything that happens is god’s doing?

Then I ask you a simple math.

Are there more blessings or more disgraces on this world? Are they doings of god? If not god, then an “evil” invisible entity?

So we’re nothing more than puppets being manipulated by good and evil creature’s doings?

Nihilism.

There are no special reasons for us to be here.

There are coincidences, feed upon by the creative human mind, that searches for meanings in all things.

Sheer luck. The 50% that make both us alive right now.

Not god’s doing, neither devil. There are no ghosts.

I want a new belief.

I know bodies have some kind of energy. (Kirlian pics are so cute!)

And there’s all to it. With death, all bodies made of flesh, bone and blood are recycled by grand mother Chrono Gaia.

It’s such a great insight when you discover the luck (?) in being alive, as our chances of being the opposite are bigger.

“The Great Below”

Staring at the sea
Will she come?
Is there hope for me
After all is said and done
Anything at any price
All of this for you
All the spoils of a wasted life
All of this for you
All the world has closed her eyes
Tried faith all worn and thin
For all we could have done
And all that could have been

Ocean pulls me close
And whispers in my ear
The destiny I’ve chose
All becoming clear
The currents have their say
The time is drawing near
Washes me away
Makes me disappear

I descend from grace
In arms of undertow
I will take my place
In the great below

I can still feel you
Even so far away

Bem… você limpa a sujeira, vai ter mais pra limpar amanhã.
Arruma as camas, elas terão que ser arrumadas de novo amanhã.
Lava a louça, mais pra lavar amanhã.
Faz a janta, ela é comida certo?
O mundo continua crescendo, e você o alimenta. Mas ele não te alimenta, certo?
Mas… o quanto você aguenta? Quanto aguenta antes de quebrar?
Quanto você pode aguentar?
Quanto você pode aguentar?
Deitado em sua cama, olhando pro teto, esperando que algo aconteça.
E sabendo o tempo todo que você estava destinado a algo maior. Sentindo isso. Querendo isso.

Mas… o quanto você aguenta? Quanto você pode aguentar?
Quanto aguenta antes de quebrar?

Quanto você pode aguentar?
Quanto você pode aguentar?

Vejo deus em crianças violentadas
Nas guerras que minam famílias
Nas crianças derretidas de Hiroshima e Nagasaki
No homem-bomba em busca do harém paradisíaco

Vejo deus na política
Na fartura de pobreza e ignorância
das crianças esqueléticas
enquanto CEOs vestem gravata

“Não está interessada em visitar a disneylandia com o polegar vermelho?”

Simplesmente sem palavras para essa cantada…

Me maravilha a gama de possibilidades do que representam essas palavras.

That’s how my paradise should be.

Deserted streets.

A humming wind,
palm tree’s leaves waving

The whole city alone.

Nobody, no faces, no walking.

This is my paradise.

Rain is accepted.

Such view excites me.

I’ll buy a ghost town and live happily ever after.

Oh, my experiences are mine and mine only. What I feel or see, will never have the same impact for you as it had to myself (and vice-versa). So there’s no sharing. If I tell you anything, it’d have the same impact if I was simply telling you a story. My truth is fiction for you.

As twisted as it is, my view of things is mine. Biased and imperfectly mine.

We’re all walking to certain and eternal death, and any light at the end of the tunnel… is nothing more than a high-speed train.

Without brakes.

Whose pilot is blind.

And sleeping.

Expectations are the seeds of frustration.

Tragedy is believing my sarcasm is tragic.

Pandora’s box is a uterus.

Difference is, how many jokes you know until the train collides?