The question visits me,
catches up with me,
like an animal of light that approaches slowly
and, as it brushes past me, whispers:
what does it mean “to be”?
Then something opens up,
a luminous crack in my chest,
a threshold where silence breathes
and consciousness feels its way through its own shadow.
Thus thought emerges
like an underground stream,
sometimes crystal-clear, at other times murky and choppy,
but always alive,
for there is no single way of thinking
nor a single way of looking at the world.
Every idea is a channel
seeking its outlet,
a restless creature peering out into the night
to recognize in it its own tremor.
We all carry our own fire,
our wound, our partial truth, our light
and our eternity.
We are fragments that burn,
islands that barely touch
at the edge of desire,
yet in that gentle touch,
invent a universe.
“To be” is to walk with what hurts
and with what saves, with what breaks
and with what remains.
“To be” is to accept that clarity does not always come,
that sometimes it is enough simply to hold the question
as one holds a lamp
in the midst of the wind.
And yet we press on,
because within each of us there is a spark that persists,
an ancient murmur that calls us by name,
a root seeking soil,
a sky that calls us back.
Perhaps “to be” is just that:
a journey without a map,
an endless conversation with who we are
and with what we do not yet know how “to be”.