I saw a boy running once—his feet barely touched the ground, as if time itself had decided to play along his path. There was something magical in the way he moved, something that made me pause. I watched, and in that moment, I stepped into the stream of time. I’m not sure I ever took my feet out.

The sun still shines on a highway I’ve never traveled. It glows with a promise I haven’t yet answered, a road that remains untouched but somehow familiar.

Then I saw her—a woman preparing another soul. Her hands moved with quiet reverence, shaping life inside her. Time, usually so relentless, stopped just long enough for me to gaze at her belly. It was a moment of stillness, of awe. Life, I realized, is a friend of art. It’s the brushstroke that the sun taught me.

And because of that force, I sing.

Because of that strange energy in the air, that invisible current that moves through everything—I cannot stay silent. There’s a voice inside me, vast and insistent, that refuses to be quieted. Time doesn’t stop, and yet it never grows old. It dances forward, ageless and tireless.

There are those who understand the game—the fire that burns in all things. They know it’s not just about the sun or the ticking clock. It’s the highway, the foot, the ground beneath it. It’s the rhythm of existence.

I can never stop. Not while this voice echoes in me. Not while the sun still teaches. Not while time plays its ageless game. ❤️

©️ Beatriz Esmer