The Weight of the Path
To walk is to leave something behind. We tell ourselves we are moving toward a destination, a place where the map finally makes sense, but the road is indifferent to our arrival. It only knows the rhythm of the footfall. In the north, the path…
Bruixa by Riudavets Ernesto VidalThe Unspoken Bloom
The morning does not ask for permission. It arrives in the softest gray. It touches the petals before the sun has fully climbed the wall.
We spend our days naming things. We call this a flower. We call that a season. We build cages of…
Bruixa by Riudavets Ernesto VidalThe Quiet Before Morning
I woke up before my alarm today, which almost never happens. The house was completely silent, and for a few minutes, I just sat on the edge of my bed, listening to the world hold its breath. There is something strange about those early moments…