It rose,
I would say like smoke that becomes a figure
before dissolving into the sky.
A wish.
Just one.
That for a moment
was real.
It touched the world,
altered it.
It was no longer an idea,
it was an event.
It was a touch.
And yet,
it wasn't enough.
But not out of ingratitude,
it's because when it was fulfilled
another space opened up.
For me, a plain behind the wall,
another form of hunger
that is born when something has been tasted
beyond the dream.
I always say that fulfilled wishes
are not final.
They are doors.
They are maps that unfold
only to reveal
new unexplored regions.
The body sings,
yes,
but it also points.
The soul, if there is something like that,
doesn't sit, it
advances.
Whoever achieves,
understands
it wasn't arriving,
it was learning to walk.
With every achievement,
a shadow of possibility is born.
Some will say it's out of ambition,
others, it's out of impulse. But only I know it deep down.
Because there's something in the human being
that can't stop
without being extinguished.
So you continue. From the emptiness,
from the vibration
of what has already been achieved.
It's paradoxical. Every fulfilled wish
is a seed
of another wish.
And each seed
a new wound
and a different flower.
Sometimes it hurts.
Sometimes it tires.
But it also burns.
And in that ardor
dwells movement.
The effort no longer weighs the same.
Now it's rhythm.
Now it's code.
Now it's part of the body
like the breath that no one notices
until it's gone.
