Moods.

Fireflies in a jar, to never forget the light even in the deepest darkness.

Memories trapped in a warm resin, golden and still while time flows outside.

Sunday afternoons made of silk, rain on the windows and happy melancholy.

Caresses that do not touch the skin, but gently scratch the tired soul.

Sighs between the pages of an unfinished book, where dreams mix with ink

Spirals of smoke that carry silent prayers toward ceilings frescoed by time.

The scent of wet earth after summer, when everything seems to be able to start again.

The silence of a winter morning, when every word crystallizes in the cold air.

What remains after the sacred fire: fertility for dreams to come.

The strength of black when it absorbs all pain to transform it into a glass jewel.

The purity of a solidifying thought, white and translucent under the midday sun

The iridescence of a pain that has become wisdom, shiny and precious.

Blurred boundaries between dream and wakefulness, where the self gets lost to find itself more vast.

The moment when shadow kisses light and reveals the secret crown of the heart.