I have been thinking, with a sort of heavy grace, about the simplicity of these ordinary things. Milk goes off eventually, turning sour under the weight of its own nature. Cicadas shed their shells, leaving behind hollow, translucent ghosts of themselves clinging to the trees. Inside us, the same rhythm plays out: our lungs expanding and contracting, burdened and blessed by the sheer weight of breath.

It is the endless, repetitive cycle of a nature that never tires of its own theater. The evening rain falls, leaving the bark of the trees wet and dark, smelling of earth and beginnings.

And the window… how the window loves the light so much that its panes always let her in, transparent with desire. It is a terrifyingly vast, yet intimate thought: this very same sun, which softly sets over the ancient stones of Rome, is at this exact moment rising over the frozen, white silence of the Arctic.

The universe is so wide, yet it fits entirely inside the breath we use to fog the glass. Everything is small. Everything is dangerously vast. And we are here, trapped beautifully in the middle of it all.

© Beatriz Esmer