Impermanence
The planet turns, slowly and indifferently, as if no clocks had stopped and no eyes were left waiting for a horizon that never arrives. Today, it is winter, but summer already presses forward, timid yet insistent, like a guest who never asks for permission. Everything is in motion — the sky, the clouds, our certainties. Life is a dance with no prescribed steps: it sways back and forth, rises and falls, sometimes forgetting where it began.
Impermanence. For those who have everything, it is a threat. For those who live in emptiness, it is a promise.
Today, they announced that the hostages will return. A piece of paper was signed at some distant table, with formal gestures, cold glances, and handshakes burdened by nothing. They say it will happen on Monday, but what is a Monday for those who have lost track of the days? To those who have spent months in the dark, trapped between waiting and being forgotten?
And all of this will change, too. Because pain changes. Hope changes. Even fear, which feels eternal, will one day dissolve. This is impermanence’s cruel and beautiful truth: it never asks for permission but always arrives.
And when it changes — because it always does — what remains is to be here. To breathe. To endure. To carry life as one holds something fragile yet irreplaceable. And to listen. To hear the world, which, even in its weariness, still finds the strength to whisper:
“Live, just be yourself. Be, even if you do not yet understand what it means.”