Hurry—though to hurry is to betray the secret pulse of the moment.

Run, then, until your breath becomes a rough, textured thing, a reminder that you are tragically, magnificently alive. Go to the window, or better yet, to the raw edge of the world, and look at the sky. It is not just a sky; it is an unbearable vastness that swallows our small, domestic certainties.

And there, the sun. It does not merely rise; it arrives with the violence of a quiet revelation. It has come to bring a “Good morning,” but it is a greeting that tastes of gold and ancient dust. It is a light that does not explain, but simply is. In its brightness, we are caught, momentarily pinned against the infinite, realizing that to wake is to begin the beautiful, terrifying labor of existing once more.

“The mystery of the ‘Good morning’ is that it is always new, yet it carries the weight of every dawn that ever was.”

©️Beatriz Esmer