Beauty is not in the polished,
nor in what shines under the lights.
It is in what has fallen,
in the jagged edges of a broken glass,
in the wrinkles of a face
that has already seen too much.

Beauty is the crack in the wall,
the dust dancing in a sunbeam
when no one is looking.
It’s the silence after the storm,
when what remains
is only what matters.

They’ve sold us false mirrors,
they’ve told us that beauty
is something you can buy,
but the truth lies in the shadows,
in what the world hides
for fear you’ll call it ugly.

Beauty is in the ruins,
in the scars of those who have fallen
and still rise.
In the flowers that die every autumn
and in the eyes that have cried too much
but still seek the sun.

Beauty,
in the end,
is nothing more than proof
that everything is destined to fade,
and what survives,
for an instant,
is all we need.

I don’t know if I’m a sad person
with a calling for joy,
or a joyful person
with a soul full of shadows.
There are days when I wake up
with laughter on my lips,
and others when the weight of the world
crushes my chest
for no apparent reason.

Sometimes I wonder
if sadness has always been there,
like an old friend
who stays in the corner,
waiting for the right moment
to remind me she never left.

Or maybe,
joy is my nature,
but life has dirtied it
with so many falls,
so many silences,
that I’ve forgotten how to shine.

It’s as if I walk between two worlds,
where light and darkness
intertwine in an eternal dance.
And I,
without knowing which mask to wear today,
the one of a smile
or of melancholy.

In the end,
perhaps it doesn’t matter who I am,
the sad one who wants to laugh
or the joyful one who secretly cries.
I am both,
a little bit of light,
a little bit of shadow,
and in that mix,
I find myself.