Paraíso Sin Creencia

When there's no proof of disease,

the panic starts to set in,

hinting an inevitable suffocation.

So you have to do whatever it takes

to show the world that you’re still breathing,

o por lo menos, intentando.

That's how we find ourselves, I believe.

Alive—but not quite.

In a paraíso sin creencia,

doubting that respiration is sufficient to qualify an existence.

What is this resistance in my bones against my soul?

Why are they not in holy harmony, like pastors preached it should be?

Maybe they lied,

or maybe nunca hice caso,

and the cosmic joke caught up to me.

I confess I despise the advice from others

—incluso Dios—

a sacred arrogance that has gotten me this far,

to the window of Eden.

Dirty—but familiar in shape and circumstance.

Though I never really know what to do with nostalgia,

especially when it seems

tanto truco como salvación.