I'm here,

holding the wheel,

believing I'm driving my destiny.

But sometimes destiny drives me,

and I don't know if I should slow down, or if I should let go.

The moment speaks to me,

whispers its secret:

that the present doesn't exist

if thought is far away.

That there is only an instant

when I look inside myself,

when I let the air in

without fear, without an owner,

when I understand

that if I don't move my wings

I can't fly.

Magic doesn't live in dreams,

it lives in movement.

In the impulse that is born

when I stop thinking everything,

when vertigo invites me

to let go of the wheel

and feel the air on my face.

Then everything explodes.

A serene explosion,

a nameless clarity.

Thought becomes fire,

life becomes present,

and finally...

it is I who flies.