The masterpiece begins with a pencil sketch—a hesitant line on blank paper, unsure of its purpose. Yet within that graphite stroke lies the seed of creation—the spark that will ignite galaxies. The novel, too, emerges from chaos, its first draft a tempest of characters and plot twists, seeking coherence. In this messiness, stories take root, their roots burrowing deep into the soil of imagination. And the symphony begins with a simple hum—a melody whispered over morning coffee, each sip carrying a chord, a rhythm, inviting the composer to orchestrate the universe.

Every great creation—the cathedrals, the sonnets, the revolutions—starts with stumbling. Someone steps into the dark, armed only with a vague idea, groping for threads of truth that shimmer like spider silk in moonlight.

Uncertainty is their companion, yet they persist, trusting their inner compass, and slowly, the masterpiece emerges—a mosaic of sweat and stardust.

This mentality—the alchemy of persistence—needs to become part of my being. I want to stumble into the dark, and trust my whispers and vague ideas. To create, not knowing the destination but believing in the journey. I’ll sip my morning coffee, hum my melodies, and write my drafts. For within this stumbling lies the magic—the birth of galaxies, the echo of symphonies, and the turning of pages. Perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll do great things too.

© Beatriz Esmer