On surrendering.

On Simplicity, on the Surface—Perhaps a Letter to the Silence.

✨️ Moments.

“Oh, if life were made of moments

Even now and then a bad one—!

But if life were only moments,

Then you’d never know you had one.”

Stephen Sondheim — Into the Woods.

Time definitely isn’t a linear thing.

Primarily, it could be depicted as an endless dance, a subtle reverberation, an intrinsic chorus guiding us toward an exponentially growing force that propels us forward, thriving, and creating. Above all, ageless pieces of memories silently watching the unfolding chapters that transcend the boundaries of chronology and circumstance. In the end, it’s fundamentally a myriad of mature discoveries rooted in the depth of an instant, culminating in a skilled unit of measure, an enthralling envelope of logic, an eloquent trail of words.

The spirited chemistry between them evolves, bringing a novel breakthrough while staying devoted to the source of the original material. The underlying contemplation lingers, implying a sober connection that spans beyond, traversing the nuanced bridge that links the present uncertainties to future possibilities. The minute narrative evokes the core of how observances mold our individuality, and moments become threads in the intricate fabric of our lives, reminding us that in the mosaic of recollections, we realize the true richness of our shared experiences.

I am often thrilled when I get the chance to reevaluate the whole introspection around me — that one sensation I have been cultivating for too long, comprehending far too well. One knows when it is there. That one brief interstice of time. You can touch its glimpse. You can rely on the presence of Light itself. You can feel the moment of impact — a sea of many significant signs. Perhaps one should embrace it as it is — life revealing itself. Perhaps it must be defined as love — concise, clarifying, and cognizant.

Perhaps. A placidly cruel word, indeed.

It’s indisputable that there are crucial, tailored circumstances that stick with a person, unfurling throughout their lives — the flames swirling through their bodies. They reignite their hearts. They engulf their souls. They reciprocate their love. I’ve always held the belief that human emotions bear a resemblance to poems, often centering on concise parallels within their unwritten verses, amid the in-between tales, and in their fond remembrances of wonders. Underneath the surface, they allow a home to remain and shape their sustenance. Evidently.

“There is never a time

Like the present. It lasts forever

Wherever you are. As ever I remain.”

John N. Morris — The Christmas Letter.

✨️ Words.

“This poem will not use the word beautiful for it resists

Calling a thing what it is. So what

If I’d like to tell you how I walked last night, glad, truly glad, for the first time

In a year, to be breathing, in the cold dark, to see them. The stars, I mean.”

Leila Chatti — The Rules.

Lately, my thoughts have been dwelling on them as entities in an idyllic scenario where the sun radiates brightly against a luminous sky, casting a gentle light on a path leading towards the infinite — at a slow, steady pace. An ideal setting where an island holds dense substance, cradled within the arms of the deepest azure waters — an inestimable sanctuary. Howsoever, these natural elements appear to be restrained in ways I can’t precisely describe. They remain pacific, impenetrable, plain. Yes, the words — a sneak peek behind the guarded meanings, things unstated safely concealed behind them. They systematically unveil glass doors, inviting proximity with a touchable closeness. They persistently reflect brown eyes, marked by a hint of fatigue from pondering. They consistently draw the drapes shut, deliberately savoring the secluded world they opt not to expose.

Perhaps it’s the impending reality of a balanced heartbeat on the verge of being replaced with quiescent but nevertheless, confident love. Perhaps it’s the cold prospect of failing to create a warm sunlight able to convey the truth, expressed without any sort of ambiguity. Profoundly, patiently, palpably.

There’s a part of me that wants to believe it could, in fact, be simple. Comforting trust. Absorbed courage. Conspicuous surrender. All distinct words used to express the same indomitable concept — “joie de vivre”. A proliferative stream of hope in the forefront of one’s mind, living in the awareness of some stark contexts a heart wouldn’t dare bring to the surface. Deep down one knows all that, but even so, articulating it out loud can help to make it less raw, and even, a bit more real.

A long-established environment where each curve possesses depth, and every turn echoes with authenticity. A compelling journey thoroughly captivated by the exhilarating rediscovery of zeal, curiosity, intrepidness. It all still feels reminiscent of the initial encounter — a sense of experiencing fresh and surreal ripples of jubilance, growth, clarity. A peerless cornerstone of poetry once more.

A silent dialogue begins anew. The same way a serene smile, naturally imbued with warmth, genuinely communicates with those inherently attuned; this represents one of those audible sentiments solely resonating with those naturally endowed with insightful vision. The sound of the signature pulse — kind, at ease, and remarkably reliable. The same old rhythm, the same old song. A slight slice of something else, a noble quest seeped into the depths of its own breath, of its own identity.

Matter-of-factly, intuition has been steadfastly asserting its constant presence within the principles of the play, emphasizing the pursuit of the intimidating and the appreciation of the rare.

Perhaps one of the greatest things words can do for a poet is to calm their mind. To allow them to let go of the world and simply be while undergoing countless metamorphoses in order to become one’s authentic self. Perhaps even to perform for the sake of themselves. Perhaps even most of all.

The act concludes.

The formidable contradiction of love, pride and, triumph.

The curtain falls.

An entirely certitude, settled in the permanent intersections of the heart.

“I brought you silence

(for I know silence)

you would say

This is not silence

this is another poem.”

Leonard Cohen — Gift.

✨️ Meanings.

“Surrender, as I surrendered. Dive into what you don’t know like I did. Don’t worry about understanding, living surpasses any understanding.”

Clarice Lispector.

Silence can be such a roaring element, can’t it? Yes, indeed. It has a gift of its own when it comes to defying words. Especially, when one examines the main aspect in detail and from a dignified angle. I wonder if this challenging line of reasoning has anything to do with my percipience of essential humanity — a denotation I have been exploring quite often in the last couple of years. While in awe of the inaudible tunes coming from its lyrical temperament, I must confess that I might have been acknowledging a freshly acquired tension in the acumen of the abstract, in the face of the absent. Both compelling forces, urging one’s soul to engage with the inception of their realms. It’s plausible to say that’s why I ended up here, writing and diving deep into some uncharted, and still, foundational lands.

Perhaps on account of the fact that I have also been hearing a poignant contemplation that thrives on inward poise. A distinct symphony that conveys the fluid, multifaceted dimensions of consciousness. That’s how I would particularly define an integral celebration of synchronicities — the small pieces that keep the interstices of life being ephemerally created and coming around again. Amalgamated, they represent a plentiful cycle of continuity where each note contributes to the composition of change. If only we could open our hearts to trust their eccentric sound, their exuberant voice. If only we could assimilate their decisive observation of time — in its own unswerving wholeness.

Perhaps on account of the fact that silence can be a deafening and yet, acceptable response to questions we might have no right to venture about. Perhaps because at times, stillness must be interpreted as the possession of a wee bit melancholic wistfulness, of a subjective finality. Perhaps because, regardless of the context, silence remains like steam — an elusive mist lingering merely on the surface. Perhaps because “the flourishing” might have already started, into the breadth of the contact, into the woods of the soul.

It’s easy to come to this conclusion as a doctor. Once the tissue has been touched, a nearly disturbing hush ensues. The procedure requests a period of its own in order to create new, abundant, fecund cells. Their potential, ineffable. Almost as enigmatic as the silence that precedes their existence. Perhaps the same goes for the inner self. Simply out of merit. Simply out of love.

In the exchange between fear and familiarity, words are converted into vessels aflame with magnificence, carrying emotions across a river of metaphorical transformations, creating a tapestry woven from the threads of our hearts. This odyssey seems to be an invitation to search, confront, and encompass the human experience. Like a gemstone, it is irresistibly drawn to mastery, evolving over time the same way as a magnet pulling toward its nucleus.

The figurative language doesn’t truly soften when viewed from the perspective of a patient, especially one grappling with chronic pain — a struggle I’m intimately acquainted with. It makes one more sensible, more resilient — undoubtedly. It cultivates a heightened sense of empathy and lucidity. It becomes clear-cut to perceive the good in all steps of the fight when one rides through that every single day themselves. The adventure of learning; the spice of being.

I recently came across a wise question that made me very intrigued — “Are birds free from the chains of the sky?” Oh, the density of this reflection. In my view, they veritably are. They solely come and go, they simply rise and fly on — embodying their own abstraction of liberty. “Simply”, the key word here, and crucial to every link in the chain. Even to the most defiant prospect of restrain, the one created by the walls of our minds.

Choosing to yield to the tenacious inner voice involves connecting with the notion that one may have developed a habit of stubbornly attempting to outwit themselves. This behavior can pose a challenge their heart has been gradually adapting to — not in an elementary or straightforward manner, but with multiple, possibly elaborate, strata of meaning or significance. The punctual effort to strengthen its defenses only intensifies the undeniable recognition of truth emanating from the trustworthy utterances spoken or the absence thereof. A forthcoming epiphany sternly navigating through the stages of eloquence, prompting a reassessment of both approachability and reevaluation in its wake.

Whenever I write, I endeavor to foster an attitude that inhabits my existential role, seeking to breathe a wave of vigorous air. A positive solace akin to the sunrise on the horizon, delicately sprinkling an old-fashioned shade of color across the scenery. A gilded pulse adept at rationalizing the coherence between symbolism and sentiment, the seamless unity between facility and felicity. This is how words spontaneously course through the heart, reigning in the mind. This is how the once unflappable paradigm becomes receptive, assimilating a rigid reminder of fortitude. Amidst the tension and the certainty, flashes of the whole emerge — nestled, submerged, condensed. Above all, one requires inspiration in order to fathom the nuances of its voice, to grasp the inexorable reverberation it carries.

A cohesive fusion. The rush of relief transcending letters, the energetic outburst in a cathartic release. On the surface, the poetry appears influenced by my character — a well-textured yet tangible complexity. In essence, it’s the one thing I’ve chosen to accept as an independent being — a discernible yet coexisting duality.

Here’s to listening to unspoken feelings, here’s to holding onto the opulent, here’s to healing scars. Here’s to many more seasons of self-discovery, here’s to paying attention to the well-versed layers, here’s to conquering self-love with resolute determination.

Here’s to empowering the role of a fighter, the genesis in the artist. Here’s to embracing the uncertain with courage, uncovering splendor in each episode of the journey. Here’s to entrancing the in-depth presentation of minimalism on the outward side. The quiet prelude to a creative commitment, relishing the autonomy of faithful prowess, akin to an ardent aura ascending the remembrance of grounding presence.

Finally, there is no “perhaps” anymore. Wholeheartedly, not. Just me, letting myself be — into the Light. One that radiates fierce vulnerability, one that astounds me, one that I sincerely prefer.

“I am full of a sense of promise, like I often have, the feeling of always being at the beginning.” — Diane Arbus.

✨️ Terms of Endearment.

— Smoothly unpacking,

(the Spring of)

Utmost respect and admiration.

The consent to subsist beyond the vocalized sound.

Meticulously allowing,

(the root of)

Inherent beauty and excellence.

The more I see of the world, the more I realize how singular it is.

Equitably honoring,

(the enlightenment of)

Velvet discipline and musicality.

Highly aware, highly humble,

The time stands still, in this infinite sphere, chanting the chorus of the song, enshrined in a poem imagined by me — born wild, and wholesome, and free.

In the dim glow, I envision a commendable blend of acumen and fluidity — a voyage of exploration, in awe of boldness, wonder and care. The striking illustration elegantly shines through the marvels of a bountiful setting, like an ocean pulsating with the harmonious cadence of stirring motion. The individuality of a place of memory embedded in a perennial succession composed of notelets on self-improvement, each stunning in and of itself. They matter; they stand out.

Amid the strands of life, moments and meanings weave a portrayal of exultation and exile, crafting a story that surpasses the soul of notorious and yet, nostalgic ambiance. As we delve into the realms of reminiscence, we unearth not just fragments of the past but pivotal parts of our personality — reinterpreting dreams, reinventing words. Through the lens of mind, ordinary lines become extraordinary, and in their reflection, we find the peak of our generous humility, the quintessence of our mutual humanity.

The source pours her soul into a deep bubble of sentences, bringing all the vivacity that only it can exhale. The close-knit syllables infuse their tide into a cluster of communication, liberating all the vibrancy that only they, collectively, can release. A unique voice and its silent force. An unbounded scene and its expressive spirit. An unrelenting momentum and its veracious self. The same as seeing a child’s eyes for the first time, the same as cherishing a flower’s petals in their tactile and sensorial component of nature. Incredibly touching, plainly real.

I strive to ameliorate my focus for the secure breakthrough — a single word comprised of many shifts and meaningful implications. It could be transcribed as the act of creating a new atmosphere, dismantling the quiescent structure of silence, opting to believe rather than burying the indelible watercourses of sentience. I seek to witness how the signals reside within that subliminal space, maintaining an incremental balance of prominent parameters and accurate art.

Engaging in the recesses of the heart’s pools, I enable these hopes to surge forward with both intensity and intention. Their existence extends above and beyond the rules of poetry, establishing a simple yet purposeful dream, redolent with responsive possibilities and virtuous priorities.

The wellspring resists in its prime, ignited by a spark of illumination akin to a rare orchestra within my heart. The sublime insight, woven into a melody by the finest maestro, resonates in the halls of my memory. Still echoing through the tempo that lurks beneath the surface, it whispers ephemeral sonnets derived from this ongoing monologue in synchrony with a somewhat substantial, mellifluent something;

The sun rising over the horizon,

The light falling through the drawn and yet, caressed curtains.

(Unconditionally and unequivocally.)

Here’s to being, flowing, soaring.

(Then and now. Here. Always.)

With the same old yet polished love — present, prepared, and firmly in control,

✨️ Thaíssa.

— Here I am, flourishing in my historical Minas Gerais (Brazil).

“I wish you endless dreams and the furious desire to realize some of them. I wish you passions. I wish you silences. I wish you, at last, to never give up the search, for adventure, life, love. For life is a wonderful adventure, and no reasonable person should give it up without a tough fight. I wish you, above all, to be yourself.”

Jacques Brel — Best Wishes.

May the transformational soul of the season wrap you in serenity and joy, spreading its warmth throughout the upcoming year. May each day bring us closer to our words, our gifts, and our aspirations.

Edna Ferber once said “Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling.” And for that reason, I am posting these pictures today — just another typical day that holds the potential to become a memorable one in the book of being.

I long to capture the contemporaneity of the impact — a modest gesture, leaving room for time to unfold and reveal its proper, charming relevance.

Recently, a person shared this message with me: “You, Thaíssa, eagerly experience what you love, even if you stand alone in doing so. I admire your uniqueness.”

These words got me thinking of this one quote and its confident, proactive fundament:

“Nothing can dim the light that shines from within.” — Maya Angelou.

“Poetry is not only dream and vision; it is the skeleton architecture of our lives. It lays the foundations for a future of change, a bridge across our fears of what has never been before.” — Audre Lorde.

✨️ The core.

I seek to draw understanding into alignment with depth. I try to treasure each precious segment of life, and above all, the ones that are capable of constructing the eternal progress of time. No judgment, only acceptance.

✨️ The highlight.

As helplessly as I was enchanted by it, that much consciously, I had chosen it first — in the most fraternal, upright, noble way. A source deserving of consideration in writing, an inherently good one.

“Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” — Delia Owens.

As I see it, belief serves as a powerful lens through which individuals interpret and navigate the complexities of existence, shaping perspectives, decisions, and resilience in the face of adversities. And ultimately, it’s not like we have any other choices, right?

The newfound end — a refreshing onset. A terra incognita and untravelled. Today, the past fills my memory, and my heart beats with anticipation for the promise of the future. I recollect everything, and there are still moments to be made; achievements to be optmistically embraced.

— “Simples assim.”

Yes, in Portuguese too.

(Plus, cheese breads.)