I was born from a spark, and they told me I was a star.
I was a solitary kind.
Originating from a tiny particle among billions,
a grain of dust thirsty for knowledge.
In an ancient tale, I was painted
as if the truth were in my body,
a cascade of pure, crystal-clear water without fissures.
But I knew—or suspected—that
a space exists within my atoms.
There was a space,
a vast, shining gap,
like the darkness before dawn.
They taught me that my body is composed of carbon and dreams,
that my bones have the density of mountains,
and that my blood, made of lightning and storms,
dances in the orbit of the heart,
this blue planet called Earth, our home,
whose core holds an uncertain flame.
It is what warms all life, mine and ours.
I’m searching for mirrors and oracles.
I’ve observed my future in the curves of my hand,
as if the lines narrate stories already written,
worn down, etched in stone,
from some dark and enchanted place.
My image, a shadow,
wandering between who I am and who I wish to become.
In the firmament, the stars cluster to form constellations.
I was told that fairy tales are enchanted.
The ancient legends were created by physics and fate.
Believe me: if I want to draw my own path,
Is it possible?
What if I break the ties of the sky?
Would it be utterly unfeasible?
If physics states that matter cannot disappear, then what does it mean
that matter can never disappear?
That everything transforms.
Therefore, I am also
the ashes of galaxies that crumbled,
the brightness of a comet that tore through the sky and extinguished,
seeking something broader,
older than the written terms.
I am a wandering star, without legends, without identity.
Where I haven’t even been mapped.
Oscillating between turmoil and tranquility.
The universe can also be a mirror for me,
a map of the sky where I’ve drawn
drop by drop, one by one,
the definition of who I will be,
without patterns, without external narratives.
I detach myself from the stories that were told to me,
from the truths written on invisible scrolls.
My words, made of dust and light,
float, uncertain,
and little by little, form a new tale
where I am the sorceress, the traveler,
the universe itself is expanding.
Currently, without fear of reshaping myself.
I hear the voice of a deceased star
that murmurs, like a mother,
like a myth:
“You represent the sky that is contemplated.”
the abyss to be faced,
the light that fades
and restructures itself.
Therefore, I move towards the unknown,
the form of me,
composed of unanswered questions.
Spinning, delicately and unhurriedly,
within the vastness of what I still do not know how to be.
I seek to be.
Thus, I continue in the orbit of the unknown,
the outline of me,
made of unanswered questions,
gravitating, subtle and unhurried,
in the vastness of what I still do not know how to be, while
I seek to be.
And as I glide through this limitless space,
I am a comet determining its trajectory.
Shining in pieces devoid of fate,
without beginning, without end, simply movement.
I no longer seek answers, only the fleeting light,
ceasing to be, dividing myself into constellations
that never establish themselves.
Therefore, I am the choreography of invisible galaxies,
between what is dream and reality,
an ancient resonance hiding in the dark,
not to interrupt but to expand.
For poetry and more, visit Mecella.